There is Nothing Special About Grant Ward
by NezumiPi
Summary: Coulson sends Skye to get intel from Ward. Ward isn't the monster they think he is. He's no tragic hero, either. He's made of all the experiences that were put into him - nothing more, nothing less. There is nothing special about Grant Ward. [reboot of prev fic - better now I promise]
1. Chapter 1

"_Garrett's dead, Ward. Nothing you do now can betray him."_

_Ward's eyes were barely open._

"_When Fitz wakes up each day in the hospital, he's disoriented and confused, which makes him frightened. He has retrograde amnesia for the weeks before his injury, no memory of your betrayal, so he asks for you. Are you hearing me, Ward? He thinks he's been captured and he hopes that you'll come to rescue him."_

_Ward's breathing was slow and steady._

"_Grant, listen to me. You've done wrong, but you can start to make this right. We need names. Other Hydra agents within SHIELD."_

_At first, Ward was perfectly still, showing no reaction at all. Then, slowly, he lifted his right hand in front of his chest. He formed a fist with his pinky sticking up then turned his wrist so he traced a 'J' in the air. Then he made an 'O' by touching his thumb to his four fingertips._

_It took Coulson a moment to realize that Ward was fingerspelling. Even though Ward's voice had yet to recover, he still had the option of simply mouthing his response and allowing the SHIELD lip-reading software to interpret for him, or to write his answers with the crayon Coulson had provided (crayon being the least dangerous writing implement). Still, Ward was actually communicating something. That was progress._

"_J…O…H…N." Coulson echoed each letter after Ward signed it. It had been a long time since Coulson used fingerspelling, and he had to consciously work to recall each letter. "G…A…R…R...E…T…T." _

_Ward dropped his hand back into his lap, wearing a self-satisfied smile._

_Coulson stood up and left the room._

* * *

"You wanted to see me?" Skye edged into Coulson's makeshift office. He was sitting at a desk, laptop open, May standing behind him.

"Yes, come in."

Skye eyed the file that was open on the desk. "Is this about Ward?"

"His interrogations have yielded nothing," said May. "He claims that Garrett kept him compartmentalized from other cells. We have no way of telling whether that's true."

"Don't you have, like," Skye made air quotes, "ways of making him talk?" To her own surprise, she didn't feel particularly uncomfortable at suggesting they should torture Ward. It wasn't like Coulson just tortured people for the hell of it.

"We do," said Coulson in a measured tone. "But Ward is trained in resisting interrogation. And he's better at it than most SHIELD agents. It's a skill called autohypnosis. It's a sort of intense, intentional relaxation, becoming detached from your surroundings. Specialists are trained in it – according to Ward's file, he was a natural, almost a prodigy. We think it's how he beat Koenig's lie detector."

"It means," said May, "that he's only going to talk if he wants to talk."

Skye had a feeling she knew why they were telling her all of this, but she couldn't quite figure out how to articulate it. "You think that…"

"When he was trying to force you to decrypt the hard drive, he was trying to explain himself to you," said Coulson. "You can build on that."

"You want me to interrogate him?"

"I want you to visit him." Coulson gave one of those little 'its somehow out of my hands' shrugs. "Tell him the truth: that you want to understand, not because you plan on forgiving him but because you need to know how we could've been so wrong about someone."

"I never want to see him again."

"Understandable," said Coulson. "The difficulty is that we don't know what we don't know. He could be hiding an enormous trove of information, a few key details, or nothing at all. We need to know if that intel exists. And the only way we can know for sure…"

"Is if I convince him that he wants to tell me the truth," said Skye. This was a mission, a serious task for her as an agent. She wasn't wild about it, but she could do it.

* * *

Guards led Skye into a small, white room with oppressive steel walls and a plexiglass barrier, speckled with air vents, down the middle. There was a solid metal table bolted on both sides of the barrier. A thin opening, maybe one inch high, rose above the surface of the table. The guards had informed Skye that she would have to get their permission before passing anything to the prisoner. There was a regular folding chair on her side. On the other side, there was a heavy steel chair welded to the ground.

She sat down and waited, wishing she had brought her laptop with her. The whole prison was spotless, chemically clean. It was quiet, too. Somehow, she had expected noise, though she wasn't sure why.

The door on the other side opened, and Ward shuffled in. His hands and feet were cuffed, but they were letting him walk around. Well, what did Skye expect? It's not like he was Hannibal Lecter. He was just a guy.

Ward didn't visibly react when he saw her. Maybe they told him she was coming? Maybe he didn't really give a shit one way or the other.

"I wondered when Coulson was going to send you," he whispered. He could talk audibly now, though his voice was quiet and raspy.

"How are you clean-shaven? They can't possibly give you a razor, can they?"

"Really focused on the important questions, aren't you?"

"What else am I supposed to say? Hi, how's prison, I hope you rot in hell for everything you've done."

Ward looked impassive, but he sat down.

"If you're sorry at all, you would just tell us what you know."

"I told them everything I knew about Hydra. It wasn't much. Organizations like that compartmentalize for a reason."

"There's something else you know."

"I know a lot of things."

"We visited Fitz last week. Gemma still can't go in there. She just starts crying."

Ward didn't answer, nor did he show any signs of tensing or gulping or any freaking human reaction. Skye had to remind herself that she was here for precisely that reason. Because he didn't have normal feelings or something (Skye still wasn't entirely clear on the nature of autohypnosis.) and something might hit home without having any visible effect.

"He can talk, now, a little. Mostly he just tells everyone to leave him alone. He can't concentrate. He can't remember things."

"They do give me a razor to shave with. Once a week. I'm in solitary, so they put it through the meal slot. I get it for exactly 7 minutes, before I have to return it intact. If I try to keep it or alter it in any way, they'll knock me out and retrieve it."

"You look like shit," answered Skye because it was true and she didn't know what else to say. He had changed the topic away from Fitz. Did that mean it bothered him?

"That's probably true."

"And you smell bad."

"If Coulson sends you here again, ask for a Friday. I get to shower on Thursdays."

Today was Wednesday. Skye hadn't been lying when she said Ward stank. He smelled like BO and urine. Skye hadn't really thought about the logistics of Ward's imprisonment, but of course he didn't get daily showers.

"What do you do all day?"

"Calisthenics. Sleep. Nothing."

"Do you think about what you did?"

"Some."

"What do you think about?"

Ward said nothing.

"Do you think about the team at all? Me? The others? How we trusted you?"

"No."


	2. Sister

**Present Day**

"Do all agents learn this autohypnosis thing?" asked Skye.

"All specialists are taught it," said May. "Some pick it up, some don't." She did something with the fuel gauge. "Some people are more hypnotizable than others," she explained. "It doesn't appear to be something that improves with training."

"So, if you're good at it, you're like, really suggestible?"

"Not necessarily, as I understand it, but I'm not an expert." May adjusted the fuel gauge again. "SHIELD doesn't emphasize the use of autohypnosis because it's a very passive response. It means you're not trying to change your circumstances, just to endure them."

Skye was getting the picture that May didn't think autohypnosis was a particularly admirable skill. Skye was also beginning to suspect that May was one of those agents who just couldn't pick it up. "Then why does SHIELD even bother to teach it?"

"Because some circumstances can't be changed."

* * *

**Massachusetts, 1987**

"Your shirt is on backwards," says Andrea. She has dark hair and a pale face with no freckles. She is eighteen years old and four-year-old Grant Ward believes she is the most beautiful person in the world.

"How can you tell?" Grant pulls his arms in and wriggles his pajama top around the right way.

"The tag always goes in the back."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Because they had to put the tag somewhere, and if it's in the back it's out of the way."

Grant has his shirt on the right way now. He's glad he has a sister like Andrea who teaches him these things. A half-sister, really. Grant didn't like that word at first, because it made him imagine having only half of an Andrea, but now he knows it means his mom is Andrea's mom too, but his dad isn't Andrea's dad.

Andrea tousles his hair. She takes care of Grant. While Maynard's at school, she takes him to the library to check out _The Snowman_ even though he's seen it plenty already. When Maynard gets home, she keeps them apart so nobody gets hurt. She makes Grant grilled cheese sandwiches. And when something does go wrong and there's fighting, she cuddles next to Grant in his bed afterward and sings him bedtime songs about _Bridge over Troubled Water_ and _Hey Jude_.

She never stays though, never stays in his bed. She always has to go back to her own room and Grant can never, ever follow her. She as a song for that, too. She says she learned it at school.

_Fare thee well, my dear, I must be gone  
__And leave you for a while  
__But though I go, I'll come back again  
__Though I roam ten thousand miles, my dear,  
__Though I roam ten thousand miles._

It's called _Turtledove _and she sings it to Grant a lot, changing the words so it's about her and him.

"I went with Dad and Mr. Eddie today," says Grant.

"I know," says Andrea. She sounds sad.

"I don't like it. I don't want to go again. Tell them I won't go again."

"I can't," says Andrea. "It's not up to me."

"We went to see the man and he gave us money and then the next man and he gave us money, too. But then we went to a man and he didn't give us money and Mr. Eddie hit him and he was bleeding and stuff."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, and then we went to the next guy and he gave us money."

"Yeah."

"But I don't think I like it and I don't think I want to go again."

Andrea brushes the hair out of his face. "Sometimes there are very bad things. You don't want to see them, you don't want them to happen, but they're going to happen anyway. So what you do is you close your eyes and pretend very hard. You pretend you're all alone and the bad things aren't happening at all. And if you pretend as hard as you can, pretty soon it will be over."

* * *

Some people wondered how Maynard and Grant came out so different. Maynard was loud and savage. Grant was withdrawn, almost timid. They had the same parents, the same house. One theory, joking-but-not, was that Grant had a normal name while Maynard had a weird one, causing the older boy, like Johnny Cash's proverbial boy-named-Sue, to grow up scrappy. And that could be. But Andrea was only 10 when Maynard was born, still furious with her mother for marrying Kenneth Ward, so she ignored the baby, left it to the occasional and insufficient care of its parents. By the time Grant was born, Andrea was 14 and a good deal more mature. She could put her feelings aside long enough to take care of her new little brother.

Except when she couldn't.

"911, what is your emergency?"

"My name is Grant and I need a ambulance and a doctor for my sister. She's really sick. She's sick so she took all the medicine."

Andrea goes to the hospital after that. The doctors make her better but it takes lots of days.

She has days when she cries and cries. Grant asks her why she's crying, but she only ever says, "Because I'm sad."

She has days when she can't run and play with him, days when she moves very slowly. Days when she clings to him and sings _You Are My Sunshine_ until Grant squirms away from the uncomfortable awareness that he is, in fact, her only sunshine.

There are days when Grant wonders what could be in her room, so terrible that he can never see it.

Today she is holding a little white toy. It looks a little bit like a fat marker but the felt tip is skinny and long. She's looking at it and hugging herself and crying. "No, no, no," she says, "no, god, no."

She doesn't smile for a very long time after that. She goes to the doctor and she says that God will never forgive her. She tells Grant to never, ever go near Mr. Eddie and mutters angrily about mom looking the other way.

Grant doesn't understand any of these things, so he sings her the _Turtledove_ song and promises to be her sunshine forever.

* * *

It's bedtime. Andrea reads to Grant from his library book.

"Now the _Turtledove_ song," says Grant, in that demanding way little children have that somehow isn't rude.

"No," says Andrea. It's not a word she says to him often. He's a good boy and he doesn't ask for much. "No, that's a song about someone who leaves and always comes back. We need to sing a different song. It's a good song and I'm going to teach it to you."

Grant wraps the blanket around his arms and nods. All of Andrea's songs are good.

"Listen close," she says. Then she starts to sing, "_A winter's day / in a deep and dark December / I am alone / Gazing from my window / To the streets below / on a freshly fallen silent shroud of snow / I am a rock / I am an island._"

She sings it to him every night. She tells him what the words mean and they practice the song together until he knows it by heart. She knows he'll never remember anything she tries to tell him, but a song, she hopes that maybe he'll remember that, long enough that he can take the message to heart.

Then, Andrea wakes him up in the middle of the night. Her voice sounds heavy and messy like it's full of water. "Grant, there's no way I can explain this to you. I'm so sorry, I have to. I have to go. I can't stay here any longer. I couldn't leave without saying good-bye. Be careful. Be brave. You can be strong like a rock, like the song. Oh, my beautiful little brother, I will love you forever."

She embraces his tiny body until he falls back asleep.

Grant never sees his sister again.

* * *

**Present Day**

The guards led Skye to that unnerving little room again. It was a Saturday, so hopefully Ward wouldn't stink so much this time around. She was tempted to stand off to one side the way May would, weight distributed evenly across shoulder-width feet, head tilted down and eyes tilted up in a pose that made everyone unaccountably nervous. But Skye wasn't sure she could pull it off, and Ward wouldn't be intimidated anyhow.

Skye sat down.

When Ward shuffled in on the opposite side of the barrier, he looked basically the same as he had before, though admittedly a bit cleaner. He had the same bored, absent look as before.

"I don't understand," said Skye, "why you won't cooperate. What could you possibly have to gain?"

Ward said nothing.

"Are they paying you? Threatening you? Do you just like their weird double-Nazi salute?"

Ward said nothing.

Skye sighed. Coulson had warned her that the direct approach probably wouldn't work. "The least you can do is tell us if Triplett is Hydra. You said you cared about me. You said that was real. Well, he worked under Garrett and now he sleeps down the hall from me. So if he's-"

"You shouldn't trust him," said Ward. His voice was a little closer to its normal volume, but still had an ugly rasp.

Skye sat up straight; she had just been stabbing in the dark. "Wait, he's really…he's actually Hydra? How do I know if you're telling the truth?"

"I have no reason to think he's Hydra. As far as I know, most of Garrett's trainees weren't. But you shouldn't trust him."

"If he's not Hydra, then why the hell not?" Skye's pulse was gradually returning from its panicked peak.

"Because you shouldn't trust anyone."


	3. Rules and Responsibilities

"You shouldn't trust anyone," said Ward.

"Really? Really?" shouted Skye, her voice getting higher and louder. "Is that how you justify betraying us? Because we shouldn't have trusted you in the first place? Because nobody should ever trust anybody?"

Ward didn't answer.

"Did you trust Garrett?"

"No," said Ward, though the truth was more complicated.

"Did Garrett trust you?"

"He relied on me. He knew I would get the job done."

"We trusted you, Ward. We relied on you. And then you just-" Skye sighed. She shook her head. "That doesn't matter to you at all, does it?"

"It matters," said Ward softly, more softly than the rasp his damaged voicebox forced on him. "But other things mattered more."

"Like following Garrett off a cliff?"

"Sure."

Skye shook her head again, frustrated, disgusted, pained. "When you told me about your brothers," she said, "I felt sorry for you, but I also admired you, because you took something horrible and you…you learned something from it instead of just…I don't know, being bitter all the time." Skye lay her hands flat on the table. "Was any of that even true? Or was it just a lie to make us-"

"It was true. Not the whole truth, but true."

"What's the whole truth?"

"Why would I tell you that?"

They stared at each other for a long time.

"May's been teaching me combat," said Skye, when the silence became too much for her.

"That's good," said Ward. "May knows her stuff. You'll learn a lot."

"Did Garrett teach you combat?"

"A little. He mostly taught me shooting. I refined my hand-to-hand skills at the Academy."

"Simmons practices with us sometimes. She wants to learn self-defense."

And there, it was small, but it was real: the tiniest twitch. Ward took a deliberate, slow breath and his face became impassive again.

* * *

**Massachusetts, 1990**

"Eddie!" Ken Ward beckoned to his friend across the dimly lit bar. "You won't believe this, I gotta show you something!"

"What are you going on about?"

"You know how those fucking Puerto Ricans are always talking their little secret language, trying to get a leg up on us? Well, I got us a new weapon." Ken yelled across the room. "Grant! Get over here!"

A small boy with stringy hair climbed out of the _Pole Position_ game that was gathering dust in the far corner. It wasn't actually working, but he liked turning the steering wheel and messing with the gearshift. He obediently trotted over to his father.

"Okay," said Ken excitedly, "now watch this. Eddie, say something, say anything."

Eddie looked skeptical, but he was willing to play along, seeing as Ken wasn't the sort of guy to get excited over nothing. "It's hot out."

Ken looked at his son. "Grant?"

"_Hace calor_."

Ken was smiling like there was no tomorrow. "Eddie, say something else."

"My dog has fleas," said Eddie.

"_Mi perro tiene…insectos pequeños._ That's 'little bugs'. I don't know 'fleas'."

Eddie was nodding, obviously pleased. "They teaching you Spanish in school, kid?"

"A little. There's a nun who teaches us church songs in Spanish. I mostly learned it from the checkers men."

"There's an old folks' home down the street," explained Ken. "These old SOBs sit out there and play checkers all day. He goes down there and pesters them. Apparently it was actually worth something." Ken patted his son on the back.

"How old are you, kid?" asked Eddie.

"_Tengo siete años,_" answered Grant. "I'm seven," he added.

"I think we should take him with us downtown tonight," said Ken. "We can see what those motherfucking Puerto Ricans really say about us."

"Yeah," said Eddie, "but I'm thinking long-term." He looked back at Grant. "Do those checkers men speak any other languages? You know any Russian?"

"_да, немного_." _Yes, a little._

Ken lifted his son onto his lap with a whoop. "You are gonna make me a mint!"

* * *

**Massachusetts, 1992**

"I'm a better goalie than you are a kicker," said Dana, grinning and dancing around like a moron.

"That was dumb luck," groused Grant. "The ball hit the goal post and smacked you in the face."

"You tried to kick a goal and I caught it and my team won and your team lost!"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just remember, we only let you play because there was an odd number of kids. If there's an even number, you just get to watch."

Dana nodded, unoffended. He was five and Grant was nine. To be regularly excluded from his older brother's games was the natural order of the universe. He planted a foot in the fence and pulled himself up. He wasn't quite big enough to hop the fence the way Grant did, but he could climb it nimbly enough.

Grant tipped his head to the side and squinted at his little brother. "Didn't you have a hat?"

"Rowan took it from me."

"What'd you let him take it for?"

"I didn't _let_ him take it, he just took it!"

"Dana," chided Grant, in his most stern and disapproving voice, "what are you supposed to do if a kid tries to take your stuff?"

Dana dropped his head in a sulk, but he gave the expected rote answer. "Kick him in the balls."

"And if that doesn't work?" asked Grant in the manner of a teacher quizzing a lazy student.

"Bite him wherever I see skin."

"Unless?"

"Unless it's Maynard, then I should just give him what he wants." It wasn't like Dana didn't _know_ the rules. Grant had been drilling them into him forever.

"Damn straight. You're lucky I don't march you over to Rowan's house right now and make you fight him for your hat back."

"But he's bigger than me!"

"You gonna whine about it? You gonna cry about it like a little girl?"

"No," muttered Dana as he kicked at a loose piece of rock. He knew Grant wouldn't really make him fight Rowan. Probably.

They trotted along the side street, Grant tossing the soccer ball back up into the air and catching it.

"What if it's an adult?" asked Dana suddenly.

"What if what's an adult?"

"The rules are for if a _kid_ takes my stuff. What if an adult does it?"

"Adults don't want your stuff. Your stuff is crap."

"But what if?"

"I don't know. Just give them what they want, I guess. Tell me and we can try to steal it back later."

Dana thought this over as he stopped to retie his shoes. "What if a girl tries to take my stuff? I can't kick a girl in the balls because girls don't have 'em."

"You can't kick girls at all. Can't hit 'em either."

"What if a girl hits me first?"

Grant caught the soccer ball in both hands and turned to glare at his little brother. "What the hell do you do all day that makes girls want to hit you and steal from you?"

"I didn't say it _happened_," protested Dana. "I said _what if_."

"Well, I don't know the answer. There is no answer. You can't hit girls, but you can't let people hit you." Grant threw his hands up helplessly. As far as he was concerned, this was a moral conundrum on par with too many people in a lifeboat. "So, I guess just…I don't know. Maybe if she has a brother, you can beat him up."

"How would that help?"

"I don't know! Stop asking stupid questions!" Grant rolled his eyes in exasperation. He stopped in front of a light blue building with peeling paint. "Wait here," he said, pointing to a spot of graffiti on the pavement and handing his brother the soccer ball.

Grant walked one building further and rapped on the door. A young man with muscles and tattoos and a shaved head answered the door. "_Soy el hijo de Ken Ward_," said Grant. _I'm Ken Ward's son_. "_Dame el paquete._" _Give me the package._

The man looked a little amused, but he apparently decided not to question his supplier's decisions. He handed Grant a brown paper bag with the top folded over. "_Vuelve a tu casa rápido, chico_," said the man. _You'd better get home quick, little boy._

"_Besarme el culo,_" answered Grant as he turned to leave. _Kiss my ass_. He could afford to be brave. This asshole wouldn't dare pick a fight with one of Ken Ward's boys and risk cutting off his supply.

Grant walked back to where Dana was patiently waiting, their previous discussion forgotten. "Come on," said Grant. "If we can get home before Maynard, I'll make you macaroni and cheese for lunch."

* * *

**Massachusetts, 1994**

"Can you help me with my bwace, Gwant?"

Grant had hoped he could lie in bed a few minutes longer. "I told you not to call me that! Call me G!"

"G's a stupid name."

"A boy named Dana shouldn't be calling anyone's name stupid," groused Grant, but he rolled out of bed and shuffled over to Dana's room. He straightened the leg brace and clicked the fasteners into place. "You used to be able to do this yourself."

"Yeah, but now it doesn't fit wight."

Grant could see that was true. The brace didn't lie flat under Dana's leg because his leg was just a bit too big. And since it didn't lie flat, Dana couldn't work the fasteners. "We've got to see about getting you a new one. Or maybe just getting this one adjusted. I'll ask about it when I take you to PT today."

"Thanks, Gwant."

Grant glared silently until Dana corrected himself.

"I mean, thanks, G."

"Wear swim trunks instead of shorts. We can go to the pool after your PT."

"I have speech therapy after PT."

"No, you just have speech on Tuesdays and Thursdays now. They cut it down." Because you're not making any progress. Because you will always pronounce my name as if it contains a W. Because all the practice in the world isn't going to help when you don't have motor control over half of your tongue. Because you have brain damage. Because- "I'll bring towels for both of us," said Grant, backing into the hallway. "We don't need two backpacks."

Dana hopped off the bed and stood. His left leg was very weak, but with the brace and lots of PT, he could walk independently. He couldn't really run. His left hand had little strength or dexterity, but he had learned a lot of tricks to make everyday life more manageable. He changed into his swimming trunks and retied his shoes before making his way downstairs to meet Grant on the porch.

They walked to the bus stop in silence. They had made this trip many, many times before. During the academic year, Dana got his PT at school, but over the summers, he had to go to the rehabilitation center.

They got on the bus. Dana stared at the driver. "You think they'll let me dwive someday?"

"I don't see why not," said Grant. "You're supposed to push the pedals with your right leg and I think you can do all the steering with one hand."

"I want to dwive a motorcycle."

"There's probably a way to do that. Just have to rig up some kind of foothold or something. And maybe change the seat around." Dana got tired if he had to sit up unsupported for too long.

"Yeah, maybe I can ask…who's dad's fwiend who does the cars?"

"Rick." Rick McCleary ran an auto repair shop that was only marginally more legitimate than his secondary business refurbishing stolen cars.

"Yeah, I can ask him to do it."

"Soon as you're sixteen, you can do whatever you damn well please." Grant stood up. They were approaching the stop closest to the rehab center. It was a really short bus ride – Grant wouldn't have taken the bus if he were alone.

Dana could get on and off the bus alone, though he was really slow about it. Today, though, there weren't any people waiting, so Grant just stood by while his brother navigated the bus's high steps.

Dana was ambling to the sidewalk when Grant spotted a pair of boys across the street, maybe eleven years old, walking with exaggerated limps, pointing and laughing. "Wait here," said Grant, and before Dana could respond, Grant was charging across the street.

He shoved the smaller boy into the larger one. "Why don't you pick on someone your own size, huh?" he asked, though in truth the boys were closer to Dana's size than they were to Grant's. Grant grabbed the larger boy and pulled his shirt up over his head, pinning his arms. He threw the boy to the ground and kicked him in the stomach repeatedly, each blow punctuating a word. "Didn't! Anyone! Ever! Teach! You! Not! To! Pick! On! Gimps!" The smaller boy had initially looked like he was ready to come to his friend's aid, but was now backing away in hopes that Grant would forget about him. Grant didn't. He kicked the back of the boy's knee, dropping him to the ground and punched him squarely in the ear. "Have some fucking decency!" The two boys were stunned, bloody and bruised.

Grant loped back across the street to where Dana was waiting, leaning against a car. They resumed their walk.

"You don't have to do that, you know," said Dana.

"Yeah," said Grant, "but I kind of like it."


	4. Secrets and Lies

"I need you to do something. There's no trade. You don't get anything in return. You just do it."

Ward looked at Skye, but he said nothing.

"We've stopped trying to explain who you are to Fitz. He doesn't remember a few days before his injury, so he has no idea that you're a traitor. We tell him, but then he gets really upset and then he forgets it and we have to explain it all over again. It's...the doctors said it was some kind of anti-something amnesia."

"Anterograde amnesia," said Ward, without offering any explanation for how he would know.

Skye decided to let it pass without question. "Sure, whatever." She waved her hand dismissively. "He's at this rehab place and they want him to work on getting better, but he gets confused about where he is and he gets upset. He thinks he's been captured or something." Skye picked a voice recorder up from her lap and lay it on the table. "I want you to record a message for him. He thinks you're going to rescue him. He keeps fighting the doctors and he won't do his rehab. You have to tell him-"

"Okay," said Ward, "hit 'record'."

Skye pressed the red button on the side.

"Fitz, listen to me." Ward's words were rushed and his voice was urgent. "We won't be able to come for you for a few days. Just keep your head down and do what they say. Don't panic. They know better than to hurt you. They know that if they do anything, I will find them and I will make them pay. They're not going to hurt you. You're going to be okay. Just keep playing their little games. It's only a little bit longer, then I'll get Simmons to make you that sandwich you like. And I won't throw it away this time. You can do this, Fitz."

When Ward stopped speaking, he seemed to deflate. His shoulders slumped and his face softened. Before Skye could say anything, he murmured, "I'd like to go back to my cell now."

"Ward-"

"Please."

"Okay. Okay, you can go."

* * *

**Massachusetts, 1995**

"This is my son," shouted Ken Ward, in classic mobster ESL: English, slow and loud. "He's here to translate."

Lavrov looked at the boy and snorted derisively. "Тебе пять лет чтоли?"

Grant shot back, "Даже пятилетнему ребёнку видно что у тебя член не стоит."

There was a tense moment before Lavrov threw his head back and guffawed. "This one," he said, pointing at Grant, "this one I like."

Negotiations went from there, apparently leading to a mutually satisfactory arrangement: Eddie's group got territory, Lavrov's group got guns. It briefly occurred to Grant that he ought to wonder what Russians wanted the guns for, but he ignored those thoughts. It was easier to just keep his focus on translating between two screaming factions.

When Lavrov's last brute finally left the bar, Eddie's men broke out the booze.

"What was that thing he said to you at the beginning?" Ken asked his son.

"He said I looked like a five-year-old."

"And what'd you say?"

"I said even a five-year-old could see he's got a limp dick."

Eddie and his men roared with laughter. Eddie himself brought out a mirror. "Limp dick!" he echoed. "Most powerful Ruskie in the city and you call him a limp dick! That's spectacular. You deserve a reward, kid. You wanna bump?"

Ken stood up, nostrils suddenly flaring, voice cold. "Are you offering cocaine to my twelve-year-old son?"

Eddie pretended not to see the threat. "Aw, Ken, let the boy have some fun. Don't you think he's earned it?"

Grant knew he had to diffuse the situation. It wasn't good for anyone if his dad and Eddie got into a fight. "No," he interrupted. "No thanks, I mean. I don't really like it."

Ken spun around. "And how the hell would you know that?"

Grant forced down a grin as he realized he could accomplish two things at once. "Maynard gave me some a couple months ago."

"Did he? Then he and I are going to have a little chat."

Got in good with Eddie _and _got Maynard in trouble? Yeah, this was a good day.

* * *

"So," said Skye as if their last meeting had never happened, "remember how when you were my SO, you made me make my bed with the sheets tucked in really tight and you said it was a SHIELD thing?"

"I-"

"Yeah, May told me that it's not and it's just your weird quirk that you picked up at military school."

"You're visiting me in a maximum security unsanctioned detention facility to ask me about making beds?"

"Well, first of all, I'm pissed that I learned to do that stupid corners thing for nothing and second of all, you were in military school?"

Ward nodded wearing the barest hint of a faint, almost nostalgic smile. "I'm surprised Coulson hasn't just given you my old SHIELD file. It's all in there."

Skye was not deterred. "What were you doing in military school?"

"I was a delinquent. I got picked up by the police for shoplifting."

"What'd you steal?"

"A tape."

"You stole _tape_? That's the lamest thing ever."

"Not 'tape', _a_ tape. Like a cassette tape. Like with music."

"Seriously? God, you're old. What was it?"

"_Simon and Garfunkel_."

"No, really. What was it?"

"That's the truth."

"Wait, so you shoplifted one thing and your parents sent you to military school? That's harsh."

Ward shrugged. "It wasn't too bad. Lots of rules, but very fair about enforcing them. You knew where you stood."

"Yeah, but for shoplifting? Everybody does that."

Ward raised his eyebrows, expressing the sort of condescending moral disapproval he used to regularly cast on Skye's pre-SHIELD life. Then, he seemed to remember his situation and his face became blank again.

"My father was a career criminal."

"So you'd think he wouldn't mind if you broke a few laws."

"That wasn't the problem. I can't prove it, but I think he was worried that if I had contact with law enforcement, they would convince me to wear a wire or testify against him and his buddies."

"Wear a _wire_? You're making it sound like the mafia."

Ward shook his head. "Mafia's Italian. This was Boston, the Irish mob."

"The mob? Like, the actual mob? Like, with offers you can't refuse and people sleeping with the fishes and muscle guys holding their guns sideways? Did you ever see your dad whack somebody?"

"You're asking me if I ever witnessed my father commit murder?"

Okay, so when it was put that way, the whole business sounded less like an exciting movie and more like a really fucked up way to grow up. "I didn't mean-"

"No, I never saw him kill anyone. Doesn't mean it never happened."

"Did you…" Skye couldn't figure out how she wanted to end that sentence.

"Are you asking if I worked in the family business?"

Skye nodded.

"On the fringes, yes. I delivered packages, sent messages, picked up money. I never physically assaulted someone or burned down a building on their behalf."

"Just on behalf of John Garrett."

"Ngh." Ward made an unintelligible noise.

"The recording helped," said Skye, apropos of nothing. It was true – the rehab facility staff said that playing it for Fitz reliably calmed him down when he got agitated, soothed him when he was frightened.

Skye could see it, now that she knew what she was looking for: the way Ward's eyes became unfocused, his breathing slowed, and his mouth hung slightly open.

"Ward, don't," she said, and was uncomfortable with the realization that her voice sounded more sad than angry. "Whatever you're doing, just don't. I wasn't trying to make you feel bad. I was just…I thought you'd like to know how he's doing. Even though I don't know why you tried to kill him in the first place or how many people you've killed or why you joined Hydra or-"

"You want to know how I got this way. What ingredients make a traitor. You think it'll all fit into a nice story where all the villains are sad and lonely and probably have low self-esteem. That's not how it works. I'm a grown man and I'm responsible for my own choices."

* * *

**Massachusetts, 1996**

"Come on, Dana. You can walk faster than this." Grant huffed impatiently.

Dana looked ready to argue, but instead he gulped and limped forward as fast as he could. "Don't get mad," he said softly.

Grant realized that his little brother wasn't just dawdling, he was keeping his distance, shuffling sideways to keep his weak side pointed away. "Would you quit acting like that?"

"Sowwy."

"Don't say you're sorry. Don't say anything. Shut up and walk."

It was another two miserable blocks before they made it to Roach's house. Well, the old warehouse where Roach always seemed to be. Roach was a mob doctor who smoked heavily, shared cheerfully, and would keep just about anything secret. He was one of Grant's favorite people.

The boys knocked, waved, got buzzed in. Grant slid aside the heavy steel plate that formed the door and made his way past a pallet of surgical supplies that had obviously 'fallen off the back of a truck'. Roach was sitting on a sofa, watching soap operas, and sucking on a cigarette like his life depended on it. He beckoned the boys in.

"You're both on your feet," Roach said with a smile, "so it can't be that bad."

"His arm," said Grant, gesturing to his brother. "Maynard had a…we need to know if it's broken."

"Well, come on in to the kitchen and I'll take a look."

They followed Roach to another open space on the warehouse floor, this one with a filthy sink, a fridge, and what might have once been a stove, but was now just a fire hazard. Roach helped Dana hop up onto the table and began prodding at his wrist.

"Boy, somebody beat you up good," said Roach in an almost admiring tone. And it was true. Dana had long bruises on his neck and sore spots on his chest in addition to the mess that was his wrist. "You should watch yourself, try to stay out of fights you can't win."

Dana nodded, passive, as he let Roach prod his injuries.

Finally, Roach straightened. "The wrist isn't broken, just banged up and sprained real bad. Ring finger's broken, though."

"Shit," hissed Grant.

"I can splint it for you," said Roach. "You don't have to go to the hospital. But I'd think you boys would be more careful. Splint's still going to turn a few heads." Roach reached into his back pocket and pulled out a single pill which he offered to Dana. (Grant privately felt that this was unsanitary, but he figured Roach knew his stuff.) "You want a Dilaudid, kid? Helps with the pain." (Grant wasn't sure it was a great idea to give a maximum-strength adult pain pill to a brain-damaged ten-year-old kid, but he was confident that Roach wouldn't give him anything actually deadly.)

Dana took the pill with a soft, "Thanks," as Roach busied himself putting a basic splint on the busted finger.

Roach offered his hand to help Dana down off of the table. "You go watch some TV, kid. I'm going to check up on your brother's stitches."

Grant hopped up onto the table and began pulling off his shirt to expose the gash where Maynard had slashed his side with a broken yardstick. The stitches weren't supposed to come out for two more days, but the cut was healing up nicely, and since he was here anyway…

"Put your shirt down, you little shithead!" hissed Roach, quiet enough that Dana wouldn't hear, but plenty angry. "Where do you get off beating him up? He's your _crippled younger brother_. That should make him off-limits times three!"

"It wasn't me!" protested Grant. "It was Maynard! I keep telling everyone that he's crazy and no one believes me!"

"They believe you," said Roach, "they just don't give a shit. He's working for Eddie these days. Didn't you ever wonder where he went at nights? He's the perfect enforcer."

That…actually made a lot of sense. It explained why Maynard had money these days, too. Grant wasn't going to give in without a fight, though. "Doesn't mean Maynard can't beat people up off the clock. He still knocks me around. What makes you think I did it?"

"Hold up your hand with your fingers stretched out."

Grant did as he was told. Roach did the same thing and he pressed his palm to Grant's. Roach's fingers were longer by at least an inch.

"The bruises on the kid's throat and arms, they show me what size hands did this. Maynard and your dad, even your mom, their hands are too big to make those bruises. Yours are just right."

Grant tensed his face, looking miserable and angry and sullen all at once. He didn't admit to the crime, but he didn't deny it either.

"You want some pain pills, too? They'll get you pretty high."

Grant shook his head. "Roach, how much would it cost for some fake IDs?"

"For you? A million bajillion dollars."

Grant glared.

"It's not going to happen, kid. The ID is only part of the game. You have to look like you could plausibly be 21. You're what, 13? There's no way."

"I don't want to get into bars. I want fake IDs for me and Dana. New names, new birth certificates, like you did for Andrea."

"I had nothing to do with whatever happened to Andrea and if you've got any decency, you'll never suggest that I did again."

"But the IDs. I can get you money. I can get you a lot of money."

"Can you get me a private island? Because that's where I'd have to live the rest of my life if I did something like that."

"But-"

"I can't do it, Grant. It's more than my life's worth." Roach shook his head as he patted Grant on the shoulder. "You're a good kid. You're not cut out for this life. Just keep your head down and you'll find your way out soon enough. And kid, I've been good to you, right?"

Grant nodded.

"Then don't say that thing about Andrea. Even though it's not true. If it got around, it could..."

"Don't worry," said Grant softly, "I can keep a secret."

* * *

Three guards walked Ward back to his cell, one on either side and one behind him. They knew his crime in its essentials and initially they hated him for it, but that was old and abstract – their opinion was really shaped by their day-to-day contact with the man. As prisoners went, Ward wasn't that difficult to deal with. He didn't try to piss through the food slot. He didn't scream at all hours of the day. He didn't try to attack the guards or slump bonelessly to the ground when they were supposed to transport him somewhere.

Compared to some of their other prisoners, he was a damn delight.

Which is why they were surprised when he asked for something.

"Would it be possible," said Ward, "to turn the camera off for just five minutes tonight?"

"What'd you want that for?" asked the guard to his left, a stumpy man named Franklin.

Ward looked almost shy. "There are some things…better done in privacy? You know…guy things?"

God, he was stuttering like a thirteen-year-old who got his bedsheets sticky.

The guards exchanged looks. They weren't supposed to, of course, and the lack of privacy was supposed to be one of the punishing things about prison, but the guy had been meeting with woman who, well, after watching her walk, Franklin needed some privacy himself. It wasn't like Ward could get up to any real trouble in his cell.

"Yeah," said Franklin, "we can probably manage that after lights out if you keep it down."

"Thanks," said Ward, still looking sheepish.

They opened the door to his cell and he obediently went through the routine as they removed his manacles. He sat down on his cot and waited.

Time passed. Dinner came and went. More time passed. The lights dimmed. They never went out entirely, but they were low enough for sleep. The red light on the ever present ceiling-mounted camera stopped blinking. There was a knock on the cell door. "You've got five minutes. Use 'em wisely!"

Ward turned to the opposite corner of the cell where he knew another camera was hidden. He angled himself to get as much light as possible on his hand and began to fingerspell the message he'd been mentally rehearsing all day.

COULSON. I KNOW YOU ARE WATCHING. I KNOW NOTHING ELSE ABOUT HYDRA. STOP SENDING HER TO TORMENT ME. I KNOW ONLY ONE OTHER THING: THE DESIGN SPECS OF THE FIRST 0-8-4 WE RECOVERED. REVEALING THEM WILL HARM 0-8-4, BENEFIT NO ONE. I WILL NEVER TALK.


	5. Fire Always Makes It Better

**Middle-of-Fucking-Nowhere, Alabama, 1997 – 1998**

Grant Ward lay on his bunk in his underwear. It was too hot for clothes and they weren't due for drills for another hour. There was no way the Hayes MilitaryAcademy was going to spring for air conditioning. Heck, even a box fan was seen as an extravagance. Maybe it was some kind of religious thing, or maybe they were just sadists.

Grant wondered if he'd earned enough chits to buy one of those godawful sodas they sold in the canteen. It would be lunch soon, which was good because he was really hungry. The food was actually surprisingly edible, all things considered.

Grant started kicking the frame of the bed and singing along with his Walkman to annoy his bunkmate, a sandy-haired Southern boy named Hank who was unfailingly friendly and had the world's biggest hard-on for Jesus.

"_Mommy doesn't have her head any more.  
__Keep it underneath my bed on the floor.  
__Well that's all right man, that's okay.  
__She never really used her head anyway._"

Grant bounced hard on the top bunk, knowing this would transfer an annoying jolt to Hank's bed.

"_Daddy called me a silly bore.  
__Bet he won't say that anymore!  
__Cause the way his body's severed in two,  
__His vocal cords are gonna be hard to use._"

This was typical of the music Grant liked, full of non-specific rage and over-the-top threats.

"_Be-HEAD-ed  
__Watch blood spurt like a garden hose  
__Be-HEAD-ed  
__Bloody mess all over my clothes!_"

"I know you're trying to get me all riled up," said Hank in his thick drawl, "but it's not going to work."

"Maybe I just want to decapitate people," said Grant.

"Well, unless you want to decapi-whatever me, I don't see why you're blathering on about it now."

"It's a good song. What do you listen to?"

"Oh, lots of things. I really like Elton John."

"He's gay, you know," said Grant, needling Hank just for the heck of it.

"He is _not_!" cried Hank, scandalized.

HMA took all kinds of boys. About half of them were like Grant: not quite bad enough for juvie, but causing more trouble than their parents were willing to deal with. The other half were a mish-mash. Some, like Hank, were military brats who preferred boarding school to constantly moving. A few had miscellaneous conflicts with their parents or got lost in the shuffle during a divorce. There were even a couple like Keith Walford, a boy in their grade who had been sent to HMA after his mom found a stack of _Playgirl_ magazines under his bed. (Grant had no idea how living in an all-male environment with communal showers was supposed to turn Keith straight, but he suspected logic wasn't a key element of the Walford decision-making process.)

They had drills in the morning before breakfast, then chores and classes and more drills. As long as you followed the rules, it wasn't so bad. And even if you did break a rule, all you got was more chores or push-ups or extra laps. It was predictable, and in a weird way it was fair. Grant had a suspicion that the teachers weren't all that good at their jobs, but since he was actually attending school on a consistent basis, he was pulling solid C's and B's in all of his classes, and a runaway A in Spanish (Grant didn't tell them he was already fluent).

* * *

"I count seventeen pieces of outgoing mail here, gentlemen. Seeing as how it's a week from Mother's Day, I should be counting eighteen. Which one of you halfwits doesn't find it necessary to acknowledge the woman who gave birth to him?"

"Sir, that would be me, sir." Grant stepped forward out of line to address the Quartermaster.

"And you didn't think it was worth two bucks to buy a card and a stamp?"

"Sir, no I did not, sir."

"Any why not?"

"Sir, because they don't make cards that say _Thanks for nothing, you fat cunt_." Grant maintained a straight face and added the obligatory , "Sir!" at the end.

The other boys suppressed their laughter.

The Quartermaster kept a straight face. "That'll be twenty-five push-ups for the profanity and another twenty-five for the sass."

Grant dropped to the ground. This was familiar territory.

The Quartermaster squatted down and spoke softly – loud enough that all the boys could hear him, but quiet enough that they had to strain to do so. "Do you know what the problem is with a man who doesn't respect his mother, cadet? That's a man who doesn't respect women. Is that who you want to be? You want to be some fat drunk fuck who treats ladies like crap?"

"Sir, no sir," answered Grant in between counting push-ups.

"Did your mother or did she not carry you and give birth to you?"

"Sir, yes sir."

"All you boys think you know what pain is, but you just remember that all y'all mothers squeezed an eight-pound screaming basketball out of a hole the size of a golf ball." The Quartermaster looked up and down the row for emphasis."

Grant couldn't resist. "Sir, this cadet was born by c-section, sir."

"Well, this cadet owes me twenty-five more push-ups for being a smart ass as talking out of turn. Then, you've got yourself a choice. You're either going to come with me into town and buy your mother a nice card or you're going to hand write her a lovely note of at least five hundred words to be read and approved by me. What is it going to be, cadet?"

"Sir, I'll buy her a card, sir." Grant hated writing, so it wasn't exactly a hard choice.

"Damn right you will. And you're gonna write something sweet on the inside."

"Sir, yes sir."

Grant finished his push-ups and followed the Quartermaster to his truck. It wasn't a long drive into town, but he sulked the whole way. If they had made cards that said _Congratulations on being the least traumatizing member of my immediate family_, Grant might have bought one of those, but all the cards in the store would be covered with flowers and would blather on about how a mother's love was eternal or magical or some bullshit like that. It would have been easier in a certain sense if she had just abused him, because everyone understood why you would hate someone like that, but she hadn't, except maybe slapping him once or twice when he was little. No, she just ignored him. She ignored all of her kids, actually. She didn't take sides or pick favorites, she just didn't care at all. She gambled and drank and sometimes didn't come home for days at a time. Grant had often wondered how many days he would have had to go missing before she would notice he was gone.

The Quartermaster's truck pulled up to the drugstore. "You've got five minutes," he said. "And if I don't like your choice, I'm picking for you."

Grant forced out a sir-yes-sir before shuffling into the store. He found a card that said _Mom, you made me the man I am today_ and deemed it marginally acceptable. On a whim, he grabbed a birthday card for Dana, even though it was already a few weeks late. On principle, he stuffed a pack of gummi worms down his pants. He'd be damned if he was going to buy something he didn't want without stealing something he did.

* * *

It was nighttime, just a little before lights-out, when Grant hopped down from his bunk. "Hank, I need you to do me a favor."

"Sure."

"I'm gonna leave just after lights-out. When they come for bed-check, you tell them I was feeling sick and I went to the juniors' bathroom for some privacy. When they don't find me there, you tell them it might have been the seniors' bathroom."

"I don't like lying, Grant."

"I got you three girlie magazines. Good ones too, _Hustler_, not just _Playboy_."

"_Hustler_?" echoed Hank. He had a weakness for good porn. He shook his head as if to clear it. "What do you want to go out tonight for anyway? It's a Sunday night, everything's closed."

"I have my reasons. Don't worry about it."

"You're gonna get caught eventually, Grant."

"It's not gonna matter. Once I…look, sarge isn't going to matter, okay?"

Hank seemed to consider the proposition before suddenly standing and hugging Grant. "You can't kill yourself!" he cried. "Suicide's a sin! And I know you're real mad about a lot of things and I know you keep getting in fights and I know you haven't accepted Jesus as your personal lord and savior, but things can get better! I swear it! I'll call my dad and you can come with us next Christmas!" He said all of this with his arms wrapped around Grant, who looked profoundly uncomfortable.

"Whoa, whoa, who said anything about suicide? Relax, I'm not going to kill myself."

"Then why are you sneaking off on a Sunday night? And saying getting caught won't matter? I'm not stupid, Grant."

Grant was surprised to find that he really didn't like lying to Hank, but he sputtered out a response anyway. "There's a…a girl, okay? Last few times we've gotten leave to go into town, I've talked to her. We've been talking on the phone and I just gotta see her."

Hank's expression changed from worried to judgmental.

"Not for premarital…you know," clarified Grant. "I just want to see her. I'm in love. I miss her."

"Swear you ain't gonna kill yourself."

Grant sighed, but he reached for Hank's Bible.

"Nope," said Hank, "you gotta swear on something you believe in."

Grant rolled his eyes and tried to think of an acceptable oath. He honestly didn't believe in very much. Finally he said, "We're friends, right? I'll swear on our friendship." As soon as he said it, Grant regretted it. Now he was going to feel even worse about tricking Hank.

But the oath was said and there was no taking it back. Hank nodded in acceptance. "All right," he said, "I'll lie for you this once. What's her name, anyhow?"

Grant cast around for the first girls' name that came to mind. "Stephanie," he said. Might was well make the lie believable. "She's got long black hair and a really small nose and she likes to paint watercolors. She's really pretty."

"Boy, you've got all the luck. Hey, did Matthis find you earlier today? He said you had a letter."

"Yeah, I got it."

"Was it from your girl?"

"No," said Grant, choosing not to lie any more than he had to, "it was from my little brother."

* * *

Stealing a car was surprisingly easy, since plenty of idiots left their keys in the on diner table when they went to the bathroom.

Once Grant got into the car and sat down, he realized a major flaw in his plan: he didn't know how to drive. He knew in a general sense: you turn the steering wheel and do the pedals. He even had practice of a sort, having gotten the high score on _Offroad Racing 7_ at his local arcade back home. This car seemed to have an extra pedal and one more lever than he had been expecting.

_It's a manual transmission_, he realized. _Fuck_.

He was going to have to steal another car. This never happened in the movies. At least there was a rifle in the backseat of this car – god bless Arkansas. Grant grabbed the rifle and trotted down the street to the next diner. He scoped out the cars to figure out which ones were manual and which ones were automatic. No sense in making the same mistake twice.

It didn't take long before someone walked alone to one of the cars Grant had deemed acceptable. It was a woman in her 60s with short-cropped hair and an incredibly ugly handbag.

Grant leveled the rifle at her. "I need your keys and all your cash."

She looked…terrified. Grant hadn't thought about that part. He wasn't actually going to hurt her. He just needed a car and this was how he could do it.

"Wh- what- what does a kid like you need a car for?"

It wasn't like he could actually answer that question without a lot of alcohol and crying. "Don't argue with me, bitch. Just give me the keys." And that felt weird to say. His dad and Eddie were always calling women bitches. It wasn't like the word was new territory for Grant, but he'd never actually said it while threating a woman.

Her hands were shaking as she handed over the keys. She was wide-eyed, clutching her purse.

There were a lot of keys. She was going to be locked out of her house and everything. Grant held up the biggest key. "This is for the car?" When she nodded, he slipped it off the key ring and tossed the rest back to her. "I still need all your money, though."

She started rummaging through her handbag. She was going too slow. She was taking too long. Someone was going to come by here and catch them and-

"Here," she said. Her hands were steadier now as she handed over a few bills.

Grant snatched the money from her and walked backward to the driver's side of the car, keeping the rifle trained on her. "Don't call the police," he said. "You'll get your car back."

The woman stayed frozen in place, only now starting to cry.

Grant drove away.

* * *

The car had a cross on the dashboard. That had to go. It wasn't that Grant had strong feelings about religion one way or another, it was that the cross reminded him of Hank, which reminded him that instead of keeping his promise to his friend, he carjacked a little old lady. Hank was going to be furious when he found out. Hank was going to be ashamed of him.

Grant couldn't think about that right now. He just had to focus on getting home and what he was going to do when he got there. All the idle fantasies he had entertained for years now seemed frighteningly, tantalizingly real. He could bust in with the rifle and blow his Dad's head clean off. He could run in swinging an axe and hack their lifeless corpses to bits. He could stab his useless mother in her useless guts. He could kill Maynard in so many ways.

But now that he was actually facing the possibility of doing it, he was having a hard time imagining himself attacking his mom or his dad or Maynard. Maybe because he'd spent so long being smaller and weaker than them, he just couldn't conjure up the image of himself looking them in the eye as the aggressor.

If he drove through the night, he could get there while Dana was still at school. He could set the whole house on fire. He hated that house. He hated the basement where they kept the dog cages (they never owned a dog). He hated the kitchen where Maynard flipped out if someone ate a frozen waffle he had mentally (but not verbally) claimed. He hated the bedrooms which were used for hiding more than anything else. He hated that Dana hid from him. He hated the den where Maynard used to make him watch horror movies (when Grant was seven, Maynard forced a tab of acid into his mouth before they watched _The Texas Chainsaw Massacre_). He hated the front room, where dad and his pals would hang around, smoking and drinking and making scarily specific threats. He could set the whole house on fire. He wouldn't have to look any of them in the eye. He could just burn the place to the ground.

He didn't stop to sleep. He didn't need to sleep. He stopped for food and to nick some money from the diner's cash register. He stopped for gas and he stopped when the sun went down to skim the car's owner's manual because he couldn't figure out which switch turned on the headlights. He obeyed the speed limit and didn't push red lights. Getting pulled over for a traffic violation would be a stupid end to his plan. He didn't even listen to the radio. He concentrated on driving, and on the letter he got from Dana.

He pretended this was all about Dana, about protecting his little brother. And it was, at least partially. But it was at least as much about the rage and fear he felt all the time for no good reason, about the way he felt like smashing every fragile thing he saw, and running from everything sturdy. So while he told himself he wouldn't let Maynard and his dad fuck up Dana, the way they fucked up him, his mission wasn't quite as noble as all that.

He stopped for directions.

When he was close, he called Dana's school. Double-checking was good. Certainty was good. Dana was there. The house should be empty.

And when Grant hung up the payphone, a wonderful thought struck him: Maybe the house wouldn't be empty. Maybe Maynard would be lounging around with his latest whore of a girlfriend. Maybe dad would be sleeping off a hangover. Maybe mom would be digging in the couch cushions for change so she could place just a couple more bets. Maybe all three of them would be home. Maybe they would all burn.

Grant smiled as he pulled up to the house. The car's gas-tank was half full, which was more than enough accelerant. Maynard's car was in the driveway. Good. Good. Let him die. Grant siphoned out some gasoline and poured it on the porch. The house was old and mostly wood. It wouldn't take much for it to burn. The little old lady was a smoker – Grant took her lighter out of the car. Did he really want to do this? Somebody could get hurt. Somebody could die. What if a firefighter died putting it out? Wouldn't he feel bad about that?

While Grant was considering these questions, his hands went ahead and set the house ablaze.

* * *

**SHIELD Temporary Base, the present**

"Ward said he was surprised I hadn't read his file." Skye sat down in Coulson's office.

"The actual point of the op is for you to get him to open up to you. 'Understanding' him is just a cover," pointed out Coulson.

"Is it bad if I say I kind of want to understand him? I mean, he's still a major d-bag, but I want to know how a person ends up like that." Skye turned her head to the side, but kept her eyes on Coulson. "And besides, it'll make the cover more believable."

Coulson was quiet for a moment, thinking. Eventually, he sighed. "Yes, you can see his file, but I need to provide you with a certain amount of…context first. I need you to see that I made a grave error, but not the one you're going to-" He shook his head. "Context."

They had discussed the importance of information's context at length, though mostly with regard to the Rising Tide and WikiLeaks and whoever else thought it was their responsibility to share isolated secrets.

"Sure," said Skye, "context me."

Coulson looked around the room, trying to decide where to begin. "Ian Quinn," he said at last. "You remember the first time you met Quinn, how he said that SHIELD has a certain 'type' of preferred recruit?"

"He said criminals with no family, but that can't be true about most agents. I mean, Fitz and Simmons have family."

"It's not true of every agent, especially in SciTech, but it's true of more than you'd think. People who are unattached are more willing to devote themselves to an organization that requires isolation, secrecy. But there are obvious downsides to recruiting people like that."

"You get Specialist Personality Syndrome."

"Sure. Or any number of other problems, depending on how the person is living, what their situation is…" Coulson waved a hand to indicate 'etcetera'. "Now," he said, "what if it's the optimal time to recruit the person, but they're not ready to join yet? We need to recruit them now, before they join up with an opposing organization, or before they become too antisocial, or before they throw away their talents. But maybe they're just too young to join, or they don't have a basic skill in place, or they're immature, or they've got problems with mental illness and substance abuse that need to be handled before they can start training. What do you do when those two circumstances occur at the same time?"

"Does it happen often?"

"Often enough. It's not rare."

"So what do you do?"

"Well, it's different for every recruit, but the general pattern is, an established agent contacts the individual and gauges their interest. If the person is interested, they're offered a deal: We'll set you up somewhere to gain the skills you need and you might be eligible to join SHIELD in a few months or a few years. The person is carefully monitored and eventually either offered a position or cut loose."

"That doesn't sound bad at all," said Skye. The way Coulson had been talking, she had been expecting something much worse.

"I don't think it's a bad policy, either," said Coulson. "It's gotten us some of our finest assets. There was a boy, a teenager, who had actually run away to join the circus. He was living with carneys, doing sideshow tricks. He was an extraordinary sharpshooter. He was also being led down an increasingly dark path by the people around him. I met with him, flew him out to the West coast, got him emancipated, and set him up in an apartment. He was incredibly immature. But living independently made him take responsibility. He worked some small jobs." Coulson smiled nostalgically. "He actually took to donning a mask and interrupting muggings. Anyway, he grew into a great asset."

"Does he still work for SHIELD?"

"In a certain capacity," said Coulson. His voice turned distant. "You know, that sharpshooter and Ward have a lot in common. They're both snipers. They both had older brothers who…well, I guess they have two things in common."

"Okay," said Skye. "So the error, you said there was an error. What was it?"

"I think you know what you need to know. You can read the file, now."

* * *

**Undisclosed location near SHIELD prison, the present**

Ward woke up the way he always did, mind active before eyes open. It was a rule Garrett had lectured on extensively, but one Ward had mastered long before their meeting in the detention center. Long before the fire, long before military school, even long before that horrible day when he watched Dana tread water in the well. Ward didn't really remember anyone teaching him; it just always seemed like common sense that it was good to survey your surroundings before letting your enemies know you were awake.

The surface below him wasn't his cot. His hands were cuffed, but not his feet. The air was a bit warmer, a bit more humid than in his cell. He couldn't hear Jimmy Lyons shouting at the his hallucinated goblin friends from across the hall, though to be fair, Jimmy Lyons did occasionally like to sleep in. He could hear breathing, nearer than it should be.

Ward carefully tensed the appropriate muscles before opening his eyes and launching himself to his feet in one sharp motion.

Or at least, that was what he had intended to do. The handcuffs were in fact bound to the floor, so he just ended up spinning his legs around and looking like an idiot.

"There are no cameras here, no wires," said Melinda May. "So talk."

Ward put on guy-you-met-in-a-bar-who-has-herpes-but-you're-leaving-with-him-anyway grin. "I guess you really missed me."

"About Skye."

"You never mentioned an interest in S&M. For the record, my safeword is Hail Hydra."

May jabbed him with a cattle prod. "That was just to get your attention. I know I can't hurt you directly, not for long. I came prepared."

"That thing hurts a lot," murmured Ward, sounding almost sleepy. His eyes looked unfocused.

May grabbed him by his hair. "Uh-uh," she said. That's not allowed."

"You really can't stop me."

"I can't hurt you, but I can hurt what you love the most."

"I'm pretty sure that my favorite wind gauge is in an evidence locker somewhere."

"Since your capture, I've been piecing together everything you did in service of Hydra, every secret mission that John Garrett sent you on." She held up a tablet computer. "When you don't cooperate with me – and that includes using autohypnosis – I will send one of these documents to Skye."

"I am trying to protect her," said Ward, carefully enunciating every word. "What else could I possibly hope to gain at this point?"

"I don't know," said May, "but you still have plenty left to lose." She tapped a few buttons on the tablet. "Let's start with Erik Koenig."

"She already knows I killed Koenig."

"But she never saw the body laid out, wounds catalogued. And now," May tapped the screen with finality, "that's exactly what she'll see."

Ward winced when the file was sent, but the moment passed and he tried to remember how to steel his mind without slipping into a mental haze. "Three. Six. Nine. Twelve."

"Counting by threes? Really?" Skip counting was a standard mental exercise to resist interrogation.

"I'm bad at math. Fifteen. Eighteen."

"Ward, you can't possibly think that we would hurt Skye. If you know this, then someone else does too. We can't protect her unless we know what we're protecting her from."

"Twenty-one. Twenty-four."

"Okay. Now Skye's going to wake up to a picture of Victoria Hand. We never did find her body. Can you tell us where that is, Ward? Give her widow some peace?"

"We threw it in the ocean." Ward wasn't counting out loud any more, but he was still mouthing numbers.

"Tell me what you know about Skye."

Ward shook his head.

"Don't you think she has a right to know?"

Ward flinched again. "I can't. May, you have to believe me."

May reached toward the cattle prod, causing Ward to tense, but she didn't grab it. "I have to believe you? After everything you've done, you think you deserve to be trusted?" She looked down at her tablet. "This is a good one. This is a security video of you laughing and smiling after you killed two guards at the Fridge. Two boys in their twenties, and you just step over their bodies like they're nothing. I'm going to send this video to Skye unless you tell me where you got the information."

Ward closed his eyes. He didn't want Skye to see that version of him. He didn't want anyone to see that version of him. He didn't want that version of him to exist. But it did. It wasn't like the video was doctored to make up look bad. He looked that way all on his own.

May stood over the kneeling figure, hand hovering over 'send'. Ward looked thoroughly miserable, but that could very easily be an act.

"I won't. I'll never tell." Ward looked up. "Let me do this one thing for her."

May sent the file.

Ward slumped backward with a slow, miserable exhale. "Why are you doing this, May? If you want to hurt me, hurt _me_." Not her.

"That's exactly what I'm doing."

Oh, she had him by the short hairs. She was right. For whatever godforsaken reason, he really did care what Skye thought of him, which meant he really was tempted to give into her threats. Which meant the only thing for him to do was forfeit – either call her bluff or force her to use up all her leverage.

Ward looked at May and exhaled, long and low, his eyes drooping and his mouth slightly open, as he entered the deepest possible autohypnotic state.

* * *

**SHIELD Temporary Base, the present**

"Five years? Five years living in some hole in the woods like the freaking Unabomber! How is that not some kind of crime?"

"We're going to treat this as a training exercise, Skye. I want you to think through the possibilities carefully. Don't just react."

"Did you know about this when you brought him on?"

"Yes. I knew about it when it was happening, too."

"Did you object?"

"I indicated that I was uncomfortable with it, that I thought it was excessive, but it wasn't a case I was willing to fight for because I didn't think his treatment was rose to the level of inhumane."

"You don't think that's really messed up?"

"It was voluntary, Skye."

"How the hell was it voluntary? Garrett just left him in the middle of the woods!"

"If you were left in the middle of the woods, what would you do?"

"I would…I guess I would follow the tire tracks. Or maybe just pick a direction and keep walking. I could follow the sun or a stream."

"And it wouldn't have been any more dangerous than staying put. He would have found civilization in a few days."

"But if he had left, they would have sent him back to jail."

"For a crime he was guilty of." Coulson shrugged, not quite indifferent. "Or, for that matter, he could have made his way to Mexico – there's not much border security going that way – and set up a life for himself there. If you had asked me a year ago, I would have described Ward as a success story. He went from being a disturbed, violent felon to being a measured, professional soldier. Do you realize how rare that is, for someone to be turned around like that?" This, Coulson said with more ambivalence. He'd never quite liked John Garrett, always found him a little too cold, too morally perverse. The mere fact of living in the wild may not have been torture, but that wasn't accounting for whatever else Garrett may have done. He'd allowed himself to ignore that little wrinkle at the time.

"So you don't think it was a mistake," asked Skye, "isolating him like that?"

"I want you to differentiate between information you have access to right now and information that was available at the time I made the decision. At this point in time, it's obvious the isolation was a mistake, but at the time, it was the lesser of two evils."

"Well, then I don't think you made a mistake. You had no way of knowing he was Hydra."

"Slow down. Think through the scenario, Skye. He could have left the campsite, but he stayed there, with Garrett as his only human contact for _five years_. What does that tell you?"

"It tells me…that the relationship between Ward and Garrett was really messed up."

"Right. And I knew that from the beginning. When should I have acted on that information?"

Skye thought for a long time, playing back the months she'd spent with the team. Ward had always seemed so solid and reliable. When would it have mattered that he was a little weirdly co-dependent on- "When you found out that Garrett was the clairvoyant."

Coulson nodded, dulled guilt evident on his face. "I shouldn't have let him leave with Victoria Hand and I shouldn't have left him alone with you and Eric Koenig. Hand and Koenig might not have died."


	6. Simple Gifts

"You really think this is a good idea?" asked May as Triplett and Coulson carried Ward's unconscious body onto the bus. Once it had become clear her interrogation was getting nowhere, she hit him with an ICER round, intending to deliver him back to the prison.

"He knows something that has to be kept secret. If we send him back to prison, we risk someone else getting that info."

"He _claims_ to know something," said Triplett.

"You think he's lying?" asked Coulson.

"Maybe, maybe not. But making the claim got him out of jail and that's reason enough to be suspicious." Triplett shrugged slightly.

"There is another option," said May. To her credit, she said it somberly.

"No," said Coulson, "I'm not going to start out my directorship by executing people."

May nodded, didn't protest. She opened the door to the secure room in the middle of the plane and the two men lay Ward's body on the bare cot.

* * *

The door to the cell opened and Triplett entered, followed by Skye. Triplett leaned against the door, obviously there for guard duty. Skye, for her part, was clutching an ICER. Still, she sat at the table in the center of the room and gestured for Ward to sit across from her.

Ward took a long look at Triplett before sitting down across from Skye. He had known this meeting was coming ever since May threatened to share details of his crimes with Skye.

"Do you miss Garrett?"

Okay, that was not what Ward had been expecting Skye to say. "What?" he asked.

"Do you miss him? Are you, like, sad he's dead?"

"Aren't you going to say something about the files? The photographs?"

"I didn't look," said Skye. "May told me what was in the files and she said it was up to me if I wanted to see or not."

"Whatever happened to information-wants-to-be-free, tell every secret to everybody?"

"I know the truth. I know you killed those people. I don't have to see all the gory details." She leaned forward. "Why? Do you really want me to see it?"

"No," said Ward simply. The thought of her looking at his crimes made him feel ill.

"Then back to my original question: do you miss Garrett?"

"That's a trick question," answered Ward.

Skye was confused. She hadn't meant the question as a trick and she couldn't see how it was one.

"I'm damned either way. If I say no, then I'm a heartless monster who doesn't care if people die. If I say yes, then I'm the monster who stayed loyal to John Garrett."

"I know you've said otherwise, but I really don't think you can choose who you love."

Now it was Ward's turn to look confused. "I'm not gay, Skye. Neither was he."

Skye shook her head, looking just a little bit sad. "There are different kinds of love, Ward."

* * *

**Wyoming, 1998 – Year 1 of Ward's Isolation**

The first few weeks were misery. It was early spring, but without shelter, night left him soaked and shivering. Grant also came to the realization that night was actually quite dark. This seemed obvious in retrospect, but in his previous life, a light bulb had always been close at hand. Even with all the indoor lights out, he'd always had a few slivers from streetlights or passing cars. But in the wilderness, there was nothing except the stars (which were worthless as light sources) and the moon (which only helped him some of the time). He would hold his hands in front of his face and marvel/despair that he couldn't see them.

Thirst was the first need to impress itself upon him. He tried drinking from a puddle and found the water brackish and bitter. He drank anyway because he was terribly thirsty. Within an hour, he felt a terrible wrenching in his gut and vomited the water back up. (Curiously, for three days after that incident, he had a near-constant sensation of the need to urinate, but was unable to do so.) He explored farther and found a nearly dried-up pond. There, the water tasted better, but it was thick with algae and mud. It was a testament to how desperate he was that he was willing to eat mud to quench his thirst. Surprisingly, the mud stayed down, though he felt pains and cramps in his stomach. Finally, he stumbled through the forest, following Buddy, hoping the dog's instincts would win out, and he was rewarded with a swift creek. Grant had a vague memory of hearing that running water was safer than still water, though in reality he was sufficiently thirsty that he would have drank fetid puddle again.

He drank from the creek and found that his body did not rebel.

By this time, days had past and hunger was becoming impossible to ignore. Buddy caught a fish in the creek which Grant immediately stole. He had no way to cook it, so he crouched on the shore and ate it raw. Once he had eaten several bites, he was suddenly aware of what he had done. He was becoming something feral and primal and he wasn't sure he liked it. He tossed bits of the fish back to Buddy.

Grant knew people could eat acorns, though he only remembered this fact toward the end of the first week. He was sure about this, having seen a lengthy demonstration of Native American cooking on a school field trip. No one had seen fit to mention, apparently, that they tasted disgusting. If he only had tools, he could catch a fish and build a fire to cook it! With tools, he could build a trap and catch a rabbit! But no, all he had was a dog and a couple of changes of clothes.

He spent quite a lot of time grumbling and lying about in self-pity.

The quiet of the woods bothered him. In his experience, quiet just meant that someone was sneaking up on him. He had never been a social butterfly, but he couldn't recall ever going more than 24 hours without human contact, without hearing a voice other than his own. He didn't like his own singing voice, so he talked to himself, just so he could hear someone. He talked to Buddy. He talked to himself. He rehearsed all the nasty things he wanted to say to John Garrett when he returned. He said the words to _Simon & Garfunkel _songs, once he realized the lyrics to his angry rock songs were repetitive and a bit ridiculous when said aloud.

He was weak and starving, cold and disoriented. He was lonely. Grant didn't recall ever having felt lonely before, since in his experience, being alone was usually a relief. Did he feel isolated from time to time? Yes. Misunderstood? Certainly. But never _lonely_.

He sank to the ground and thought about dying, not in the sense of suicide, but rather general thoughts on his own death. Would his parents know? Would Maynard? Would Dana? The last time Grant saw his younger brother, he was sitting inside a police car trying to avoid Dana's stunned gaze. Somehow he had stupidly expected Dana to be grateful to see the house burn.

In the end, it was a fairly ridiculous thing that made Grant get back up instead of decaying on the forest floor. When he lay down, he had lain on a box turtle which tolerated the intrusion for only a few moments before squirming and writhing wildly in an attempt to free itself. Grant stood and spun around, wondering why the ground was twisting beneath him. As the turtle meandered away, Grant looked off into the distance and saw a sharp angle where two straight lines met. Not two straight-ish lines, like tree branches, but two perfectly straight lines.

_A cabin_, he realized. _Of course there are cabins out here. People live out here, and not just crazy people like John Garrett._ He would break into the cabin. Since he had nothing to lose, he could just smash his way in; it wouldn't be hard. And there would be food and water and blankets and tools and probably a lighter! He could master this place.

* * *

Garrett's first absence from the campsite lasted six months. Several changes came over Grant during this time. He grew taller, tanned, toned, and fit. He gradually stopped talking aloud to himself as he got used to the silence. He found that the focus on survival left no energy for idly loathing his family. During the first few weeks, when he starved, Grant had no sex drive at all – his body was focused entirely on survival. Once he stole supplies and began to eat regularly, he expected it to return in full force, but instead he found he had no particular sexual thoughts or urges. He jerked off a few times to test himself and prove that his equipment was still functional and he still awoke with an erection, so he knew that he _could_ still have sex, he just no longer found it interesting. But the greatest change was in how he viewed himself. He had always thought of himself in terms of his circumstances, in terms of the problems he had to solve and those he had to endure, but since arriving in Wyoming, he had begun to think of himself as a collection of skills: _I can build a fire. I can catch a fish. I can sew up a hole in my jeans._

Of course, Garrett had originally promised to return in 'a couple of months', so when he showed up after six months had passed, Grant was furious, but he had more self-control than ever. _I can wait. I can hear what he has to say._

After that first visit, Garrett returned again after only three weeks.

"Your hair looks like shit," he said gleefully, by way of greeting.

"Thanks. I got some tree sap in it. I don't have any kind of soap, so I just cut it off."

"What did you use, a spoon?"

"Hunting knife. And it's not like I had a mirror or anything."

Garrett laughed. "Sit down, kid. I got scissors in the truck. Let's see if we can even this out a bit."

"You're gonna give me a _haircut_?"

"You see anyone else around?"

It wasn't a good haircut and it wasn't like Grant could even see what he looked like, but he felt a little less ridiculous. (Of course, before Garrett mentioned it, Grant had managed to completely forget about his own appearance.) He was grateful. It was pathetic, how he lapped up these little gestures, but then, he spent so much time completely isolated. How could he not grasp at every scrap of human interaction?

* * *

**Wyoming, 1999** –**Year 2 of Ward's Isolation**

"What are you looking at?"

"Nothing in particular."

"Why are you squinting?"

"I'm…I don't know. I'm just looking around."

"Can you see as far as you used to?"

"I don't know. It's not like I've seen any movies lately."

"Open your mouth. Let me see your teeth."

Grant obeyed and Garrett pulled his lower lip down to inspect his gums.

"Hold both hands out, palms up, like you're carrying a tray. Now shut your eyes and don't let your hands move."

"What is this all about?"

"Without talking," said Garrett as he leaned in to inspect Grant's hands.

"Well, you've got bloody gums, worsening eyesight, resting tremor, and cracked nails."

"Are those signs of living in the middle of fucking nowhere?"

"What have you been eating?"

"Venison, duck, and fish mostly. Acorns…grass…there were these little purple berries for a while, but they didn't last long."

"What the hell are you eating grass for?"

"Buddy eats it, so I figured it was safe. And I needed, you know, fiber."

Garrett dug in his pack and pulled out a plastic bottle. "Take one of these every day. And start eating the organ meats in addition to the muscle."

Grant read the label. "Vitamins?"

"Yeah, hard to get a balanced diet out here. You're deficient in vitamins A and C, probably calcium too. There's some kind of pine needles you can eat for vitamin C, but there's another kind that'll kill you and I never bothered to learn the difference."

* * *

Garret rifled through his knapsack and pulled out a tape measure. He tossed it over to Grant. "Measure yourself."

Ward pantomimed pulling his dick out of his pants and measuring it, gesturally implying that it was about 18 inches long and 6 inches in diameter. "Feeling competitive, John? Or just curious?"

"Your inseam and waist, moron. Your pants don't fit anymore."

"I can find new ones," said Ward, but he took the measurements anyway. He was out here to learn self-sufficiency, sure, but he couldn't help that he had grown another three or four inches since Garret sprung him from juvenile detention.

Garrett rolled his eyes. "Just give me the numbers."

When Garrett returned to the campsite three months later, he brought two pairs of jeans, two shirts, and a good strong pair of watertight boots. Grant looked at them like they were made of gold.

"Aw hell," said Garrett, "you're not going to start crying on me, are you?"

* * *

**Wyoming, 2000 **– **Year 3 of Ward's Isolation**

Garrett was in a good move as he drove up to the campsite. Sure, it was cold as fuck outside, but Grant had put together a decently warm little cabin and he'd only stay for a day or two. In fact, he was in such a good mood that he had picked up a six-pack of beer and a few Hershey bars to split with the kid on the way in from Cheyenne.

Grant didn't come out to greet him. That was the first sign something was wrong. Sure, it was cold, but that was very odd. Buddy ran out of the little hut, then immediately tried to coax Garrett into following him back inside. This was also strange. When Garrett arrived, Ward usually showed him whatever he had most recently accomplished, his success or progress on whatever task Garrett had set for him. Sometimes, if Ward was in the middle of work, Garrett lounged around and waited to be acknowledged.

Garrett followed Buddy back to the hut to find Ward inside, sweaty, sick, and delirious. Well, that was a surprise. Since Grant had no exposure to other people, the chances of him picking up an interpersonally transmissible disease were next to none. That left parasites, animal-borne diseases, and blood poisoning. Parasites generally didn't make the host this sick. In this area, animal-borne diseases were tularemia, relapsing fever, Rocky Mountain spotted fever, and maybe even Lyme disease. Relapsing fever and Lyme were much chronic conditions without a severe acute phase, so it couldn't be that.

Grant showed no sign of recognizing Garret's presence.

Rocky Mountain spotted fever got its name from a characteristic rash. Blood poisoning would mean there was an obviously infected wound somewhere on Ward's body. Tularemia exposure could happen lots of ways, but should leave some kind of ulcer. Or was he thinking of something else? Wasn't there some kind of weird disease in deer that had the potential to infect humans? Wasting disease, or something like that?

Start at the beginning. Question one: did he want to save Ward? If he was too sickly to be of use in the future, it would be better if he died now. The disease could claim him, no questions asked. On the other hand, Garrett didn't want to start all over finding and training a new protégé. He had put a lot of time and effort into this one. As a bonus, if he saved Ward from this disease, he would be even more loyal to Garrett.

So then, try to save him. If he showed signs of permanent damage, it would be easy enough for him to die some other way.

The interior of the hut was free of snow, but it was chilly, the fire having burned down to coals. Ward appeared to be fully dressed and he was in his sleeping bag, his hat, gloves, boots, and coat lay off to the side. The small space was normally impeccably kept – frankly Garrett had always wondered how Ward managed to keep dirt off of a dirt floor – but it was currently in disarray. Ward's precious stores of food and heating fuel were still present and essentially intact, but the place stank of urine and vomit.

Garrett positioned himself behind Ward and lifted his head. His skin was cool and sweaty. Ward stirred and began to moan.

"Hey, I'm here, son. I've got you," said Garrett. He shifted Ward to a seated position and began to peel down the sleeping bag. "You know how this happened?"

Ward answered with an indistinct groan.

"All right, not talking much, I get that," said Garrett, now lifting Ward's shirt. He was willing to undress the boy completely if necessary – he'd gotten past any awkwardness associated with others' nudity in his years running combat ops for SHIELD – but as soon as he saw the boy's back, he knew he'd found the source of the infection. There was a small gash on his back. It wasn't deep, but it was clearly infected, deep yellow and inflamed with red streaks spreading out from it.

Blood poisoning, then. Sepsis. He must have gotten injured and failed to clean or cover the wound properly. Bacteria (or some kind of germ or fungus or whatever – Garrett was no scientist) got in and were now spreading all over his body. Garrett had a pretty advanced med pack in his truck. He certainly had the iodine and other tools needed to go back and sterilize the wound. To treat the infection, he had some combination pills that included chloramphenicol, a broad-spectrum antibiotic and amphotericin, a powerful anti-fungal agent. They were nasty and would cause permanent organ damage if taken over an extended period. The pills had been explained to him in the following manner: "There's enough firepower in there to take down most diseases, but they'll do a number on the human cells too. That's the price you pay for slash-and-burn medicine instead of hunting a specific disease."

He'd have to get Ward to take the pills and keep them down. They were really only designed as a last-resort stopgap until real treatment could take place, but they could theoretically do the job in a young, otherwise healthy man. And he had to get Ward's fever down, before the man cooked his own brain.

He was about to get up and go get supplies from his truck when he heard Grant begin to whisper frantically, "I can hear them, I can hear them." The boy began clawing and struggling downward, as if he were trying to go backwards, stopped only by the ground. "I can hear them, I can hear them." Great, he was delirious.

Garrett suddenly realized that the Grant Ward's undying loyalty could be won quicker and more thoroughly than he had ever hoped if he managed this correctly.

"I know," Garrett said gently, "but it's not real. You're very sick and your mind is playing tricks on you. I'm going to go get you some medicine."

As soon as he stood to leave, Grant looked frantic again, weakly raising his arms over his face. "I can hear them," he whimpered. "I can hear them."

"I know," said Garrett, "but they're very far away. They're all the way in Massachusetts and you're in Wyoming. No one's here but you and me."

Grant calmed for a moment, his arms resting on top of his face as he apparently lacked the strength to return them to his sides, but when Garret stood again to return to his truck, Grant's eyes flew wide open and the delirium took hold once more.

"I can hear them!" It was clear that he would have been shouting if he had possessed the strength. He was weak and frantic. "I can hear them, I can hear them."

"I know," said Garrett, "but you're safe here. I won't let anyone hurt you." He stroked Grant's hair and repeated, "You're safe. I'll protect you. I won't let anyone hurt you."

Grant met his gaze for only a moment, but he seemed to relax, and he didn't move to protest when Garrett went to get the medical supplies from his truck. When Garrett returned, he set about trying to save Ward's life in earnest. He started by rolling Grant onto his side, cutting away his shirt, and sanitizing the original injury. The iodine must have stung, but Grant showed no reaction. Once the laceration was cleaned and covered, Garrett rolled Ward onto his back. He took metal canteens which he'd left out in the cold and put each one in a sock. Then he put them on Ward's neck, armpits, and groin. He'd switch them out every hour or so until the fever came down. He forced some water down the boy's throat before shoving the antimicrobial pill as far back as he could and following it up with another small sip. Thank god Ward still had swallowing reflexes.

And then Garrett waited. For the first hour, Ward rested peacefully. Then, he propped himself up on his elbows and began to retch. Judging by the vomit Garret had seen around the campsite and in the hut, it was unlikely Ward had any food in his stomach, so he would have a hard time actually throwing up, but it was certainly possible and if the kid couldn't keep the medicine down, there was no way he was going to survive. (Well, no way he was going to survive without getting to a hospital, but Garrett wasn't really counting that as a possibility.)

"You've got to calm down, son. Take a deep breath."

Ward showed no sign of recognition.

The thing of it was, Garrett knew the kid was capable of mastering himself. He'd seen the boy do it before. Early on, Garrett had thrown Grant's hunting knife into his campfire, forcing him to either reach in and retrieve it or put out the fire he had worked so hard to make. Grant had considered the situation before going dead-eyed and reaching into the fire. It was a common enough skill in people who'd been abused as children. How to make him do it though?

"Come on, son, you need to dissociate. You know that word, _dissociation_? You might call it something else: relax, mediate, pray. SHIELD calls it auto-hypnosis. Do that thing where you're just gone."

No reaction.

"Do what you used to do when your big brother beat you."

Grant seemed to squint and struggle to keep his eyes open at the same time. "Maynard?" he whispered, confused. He retched again.

"That's right," said Garrett, "I'm Maynard, and I'm going to kick the shit out of you, you pathetic little cocksucker. I'm going to smash your face into the ground."

Grant looked confused and afraid, but he was still retching, still wasn't dissociating.

"So what do you do? When Maynard's there and you're going to get beat, what do you do?"

"Alone," gasped Grant. "Dark."

"You're alone and it's dark," echoed Garrett. "You're all alone, you can't see anything. Nobody's there. You're completely alone in the dark."

The change was visible as Grant relaxed. His mouth hung slack and he lay back down to the ground.

Ward recovered slowly, but he tolerated the medicine and his fever went down. Garrett stayed and cared for him, giving him water and chopping food into tiny bits. He let Grant sleep for most of the day, but he chatted whenever the kid was awake, telling stories of combat ops or working aloud on a crossword puzzle.

"Oh hey, you'd know this one. It's a five-letter word, last letter is O. It's a month in Spanish?"

"_Enero_," said Ward, quiet but clear.

Ward was no longer hallucinating with fever, but he was still confused and tired.

"How long have you been here?" asked Grant.

"It's been thirteen days since I arrived. I don't know how long you were sick before that."

"You have a job. You can't just miss-"

"I have time off," said Garrett. "And this is the fourth time we've had this conversation. You wake up, ask me what's going on, then you fall back asleep and forget all about it."

"Excuse me if I'm a little curious when I wake up with a strange man by my side."

Garrett chuckled, pleased. Grant must be getting his strength back if he could joke. And Garrett could see the way Grant's eyes followed him intensely. Garrett hadn't caused the illness, but that certainly didn't mean he wouldn't benefit from the opportunity it had provided. He had the kid _literally_ eating out of his hand.

"Just lie back and think of England," teased Garrett. "Or do your little alone-in-the-dark trick."

Grant didn't laugh. "How do you know that?" he said, suspicious and severe. "I've never told anyone that."

"You said it when you were delirious. Don't feel bad about it, son. It's a good skill to have."

It wasn't just that he was generally secretive or that it was good to have a secret weapon, it was that Grant had always considered his trick to be weak and unmanly. It wasn't really a way to fight back, just a way to make being a victim suck a little less.

Seeing his protégé's discomfort, Garrett said, "I can do it too, you know. It's really called dissociating, but I always called it _underwater_. I grew up with my mom and step-dad. He beat her. When I was little and I couldn't do anything to protect her, I didn't want to hear it, so I'd draw a bath and lay there with my ears under the water. When I got a little older, had a big enough body, he found a new use for me. Fighting didn't work, so I would pretend I was underwater while it was happening. Just dissociate. And I waited underwater, waited until the time was right. One night, he was really drunk, passed out on his bed. I told him, 'You made a hard bed, now you have to lay in it.' Then I set the bed on fire and that bastard screamed and died."


	7. Sex and Relationships

**The Bus, Present Day**

Ward told them what he knew of Garrett's early life.

Skye looked conflicted, but it was Triplett who spoke up.

"That's not true, man. He told me he was a military brat, grew up with his dad moving from base to base. Ran away because the old man was too strict. Never said anything about a step dad or any of the rest of that."

"So there's two different stories," acknowledged Ward with an indifferent shrug. "He must have lied to you."

"How do you know he didn't lie to you?"

* * *

_Here is what Skye would say if you asked her how she feels about Grant Ward:_

We kissed. And I know that shouldn't be the point or anything, but it's like, if you're going to betray us all, why would you try to get me to fall in love with you first? He says it's real. How can anything he feels be real? I don't understand how anyone could be undercover for that long. I don't understand how he could just turn his back on all of us.

In a weird way, I get it. I get what it's like not to grow up with a family you can count on. You get desperate. You fall in with just about anybody. I fell in with Miles, and look how that turned out. I know AC said it was kosher, what Garrett did, sticking him away in the woods like that, but that seems so messed up. I can't even imagine what that would be like.

I know this sounds really immature, but more than I want to punish him or fix him, I just want to go back in time to before he sided with Garrett, back to when he was just part of our team, and stay like that forever.

* * *

**Wyoming 2001 - 2002, Ward's fourth and fifth years of isolation**

After Ward's illness, he seemed to listen more carefully when Garrett told SHIELD stories. And, more importantly, he began to imagine himself as a part of them. He started to criticize the agents Garrett worked with, explained how he would have done better in their place, with a particular eye to how he would have protected Garrett more effectively.

"They never should have gotten that close. I would have picked a higher vantage point, taken them out before they crossed the ravine."

Garrett began to give Ward assignments. Some were straightforward: Do three hundred push-ups a day. Study this book until you can read Russian and not just speak it. Practice your shooting. Others were difficult, with unclear purpose: By the time I get back, I want to see a pile of exactly seven hundred stones, each bigger than your fist.

If he'd given these orders in the first year, Ward would have refused.

If he'd given these orders in the second year, Ward would have argued, but complied.

If he'd given these orders in the third year, before the illness, Ward would have complied, but grumbled and slacked off.

But now, he did as he was told, perfectly quick and obedient.

When Garrett told Ward about Hydra, it honestly didn't seem all that important. After all, SHIELD was just an abstraction to Ward. Garrett was the real thing. He had planned on working for Garrett by working for SHIELD. Now he was going to work for Garrett by pretending to work for SHIELD, but really serving Hydra.

If anything, Ward was more comfortable with this new arrangement. Every story had a villain, and now he knew who the bad guy was. Besides, this way it was Ward and Garrett against everyone, not Ward at SHIELD, alone in the crowd.

But to be honest, Ward didn't think about it very much. He thought about getting food and preserving it and patching holes in his shelter and purifying water and soaking acorns in cold water so they wouldn't be so bitter.

"When I go work for SHIELD, what will they know about me?"

"You mean the fire and all that? Can't keep that quiet. You can assume they know pretty much everything."

"I didn't mean the fire."

"Your brother, your dad, it's all taken down in ridiculous detail. They're an intelligence agency. It's their job to know."

Ward nodded, but he looked uncomfortable. "If there was one thing I wanted off the record, something old…could that…?"

Garrett tipped his head back and forth as he considered. "Sure," he decided. "I don't see why not. I can pull a page or two out of your file. You keep my secret and I'll keep yours. So what is it you want redacted?"

And that's how Ward told John Garrett about the worst day of his life.

* * *

_Here is what Coulson would say if you asked him how he feels about Grant Ward:_

God, I don't even know where to begin. He was good. He was getting better. And then it turns out it was all a lie. It makes me doubt my instincts and I have very good instincts! He had another agenda the whole time and I never suspected. I had a glimmer when he shot Nash, but only a glimmer, and by then it was too late. I let down SHIELD, and even after everything, that still matters to me. I let down my team – what he did to Fitz and Simmons. I honestly don't think he's a psychopath, but how else can he go forward with that on his conscience? And I let down Ward. At least I hope I did. I hope that there was a moment when he was asking for help, looking for a way out and that I just missed the signs. I hope this could have gone another way.

I've known people who have done worse things for worse people for worse reasons, people who got on the right side before it was too late. Maybe I should have spoken up when Garrett had him in the wilderness all those years ago. Maybe I should have made more of an effort to get to know him when he was working for me. Maybe he can turn things around now, but to be honest, I don't really see how.

* * *

**2002, Traveling to SHIELD Operations Academy**

Grant Ward and John Garrett drove in companionable silence for four and a half hours. Garrett gave Ward a small stack of news articles to read.

"You don't need to know all the details, just the main names and events. I don't want you sticking out as a weirdo at Operations because you've never heard of Elian Gonzales or 9-11."

(Ward had been about to protest that he was perfectly aware of the both the number 9 and the number 11 when he realized that it probably referred to something else.)

So Garrett drives and Ward skims. He learns about the euro and Bill Clinton's wandering dick. He finds out that the U.S. has elected a second president named George Bush – a fact about which he is indifferent. He is faintly devastated to learn that new, horrible _Star Wars _films have been released. He learns names like Andrea Yates and Vladimir Putin. He realizes he should probably find out where Afghanistan is on a map. He finds out what an iPod is and sort of wants one, but only if he can get it black or grey.

Every once in a while, a song on the radio reminded Garrett of an op, and he started telling a story from the field, which Ward acknowledged with a grunt.

"Knock that off," said Garrett.

"Nnn?"

"That," answered Garrett. "Making sounds instead of saying words. You spent so much time with Buddy, you forgotten how to interact with people. You've got to watch yourself, speak in complete sentences. Otherwise, you'll forget where you are and probably start greeting people by sniffing their butts."

Garrett decided to reinforce the lesson by pulling over at half a dozen gas stations and sending Ward in to ask for directions. The first time, Ward found he alternated between avoiding eye contact and aggressively staring down the cashier, but he improved with practice – not necessarily to the point of normal, but at least to not terrifying. On the sixth attempt, Ward returned to the truck with the station attendant's phone number and Garrett declared the exercise a success.

Around 7:30, Garrett pulled off the main road and navigated a series of side streets until he pulled into the driveway of a completely non-descript beige house.

Garrett grabbed his bag from the backseat of the truck. Ward hadn't brought any possessions from the campsite. Garrett flipped open a hidden panel on the side of the porch. He swiped his ID card before letting it scan his eye and hand prints.

When Ward entered the house, he saw several locked metal chests and cabinets with swipe card access and what looked to be a hand-print scanner. There was also a television, a couch, and shelves with a random assortment of books and DVDs. Ward could see a small kitchen off to the side.

Garrett dropped his duffle bag on the couch. "There'll be clothes in different sizes in the bedrooms, and towels and soap and stuff in the bathroom. They keep these places pretty well stocked. I'm going to go get us some dinner. You go take a shower and throw away everything you're currently wearing."

If Ward thought that was a strange command, he didn't think on it long. He undressed and took the longest shower of his entire life. Hot water! Soap! Did he mention hot, clean water obtained by simply turning on a tap? There were plastic razors and shaving cream (in the woods, he'd shaved himself with a hunting knife). There was shampoo. He washed his hair twice, just because he could. When he stepped out of the shower, the whole bathroom was full of steam. Even the towel felt like a miracle. In the woods, he'd only had slow-drying cotton clothing, so when he swam in the summer, he did it naked and had dried off slowly by sunning himself like a lizard. When it was humid or rainy, he could go weeks without feeling properly dry.

When he stepped out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, he felt different. The wilderness, life at the campsite, seemed unreal and very far away. It was obvious to him now why Garrett had ordered him to throw his old clothes away: they stank. He hadn't used soap or deodorant at all while living in the woods. He must have gotten used to his own smell, but now that he was clean, the offensive odor was unavoidable. He would have to get back the habit of a hygiene routine. And talking in sentences. And walking into gas stations without staring at the food and salivating.

As promised, the closets had a variety of men's and women's clothes, neatly organized by size and type. He found jeans that roughly fit him, though they were a little short in the leg, an undershirt, and a hooded sweatshirt that was roughly his size. When he returned to the living room, Garrett was already there, unpacking a paper take-out bag.

"This is the one and only time I will let you get away with using all the hot water," said Garrett, offering over a cardboard container filled with chicken stir fry.

Oh, it smelled good. Ward opened the package and started to eat.

"Fork!" yelled Garrett. "You look like some kind of savage! Come on, son, use your head! You can't show up at Operations acting like fucking Tarzan gnawing on handfuls of fried rice!"

"Right. Sorry."

"Is this how you're going to let me down? Really? Because you can't remember your goddamn table manners?"

"Mnnh." Ward shook his head. "I mean, I'll take care of it." Complete sentences. Utensils. Eye contact. Deodorant. He could remember those things. He wasn't an idiot.

And crowds. At one of the gas stations, there had been four or five people waiting in line, none over 140 pounds, but somehow their presence made Ward tense up like a fight was coming. He could handle that. He just had to focus and be prepared and not act crazy or cowardly.

That night he found the bed too comfortable.

He slept just fine on the floor.

* * *

_Here is what Triplett would say if you asked him how he feels about Grant Ward:_

On the one hand, I get what everybody's going through, finding out that someone you worked with is a traitor. I wouldn't say I was close to Garrett, but before all this clairvoyant business came out, I was happy to work for him, to learn from him. He was solid, smart and quick. Now I have to second-guess everything, go back over every lesson and figure out whether I have to unlearn it or not. I mean, on the surface, most of the stuff he taught me seems on the level, but who knows, man?

On the other hand (and I don't say this to the others, because they've got a right to be ticked off), I can almost sort of see how it might have happened, Ward falling in with Garrett's crazy plan. I don't know Ward very well, but I knew Garrett – or, at least, the version of him that he showed to SHIELD – and that guy could talk circles around anybody. He'd get going and before I knew what was happening, he'd have me convinced that up was down, left was right, and Stephen Colbert had been drafted by the Lakers. Now, I want to be clear. He never talked me into doing anything bad, but I guess I can see how it might happen.

I don't know. All I know is I like this team.

* * *

**Valencia, Spain, 2008;**

Ward lengthened his stride and put his weight into each footfall. He squared his shoulders and spat on the ground before inhaling, a thin whistle through clenched teeth. He knew that this was masculinity for its own sake but he didn't particularly care. He spat again. Not for the first time, he contemplated taking up smoking. It wasn't the nicotine that interested him, but the image of being the sort of man who smokes. He could see the meeting point at the end of the alley. He spit one last time and made his way to the intersection.

"You got the photographs?" asked Garrett.

Ward nodded. He didn't always work under Garrett, but when he did, he appreciated the familiarity.

"And where's Léon?"

"Está durmiendo en su casa."

"Quit showing off."

"He's at home, sleeping."

"You didn't have to fight him?"

Ward shook his head, expression betraying just a hint of self-satisfaction.

"So how'd you get past his people?"

"Comiéndole la verga," answered Ward. It was easier to say in Spanish, especially since Garrett knew almost nothing of the language.

But either that phrase was in Garrett's very limited lexicon or he smelled it on Ward's breath. "You sucked him off, didn't you?" Garrett's smile was broad now, the eager smile that balanced his upper lip on his lower teeth.

"I-"

"Yeah, you did, didn't you?"

"I completed my mission."

"Damn right, you did." Garrett slapped Ward on the back. "I like a man who'll do whatever it takes to get the job done."

It was easy enough for Ward to slip into their banter, to act like it was all just big talk. "I'm not going to suck your dick, John."

Garrett laughed. "Son, if I wanted you to suck my dick, you'd already be doing it."

* * *

"Hey! Cocksucker! Wake up!"

Garrett thought he was so damn funny, calling Ward that. Maybe it was funny the first five times, but it sure as hell wasn't funny the last eight.

It didn't help that Ward really didn't want to think about his…_activities_ with Léon. He knew how to separate himself from his mission. He knew that undercover work involved doing things he didn't want to do. But he wasn't gay or bisexual in the slightest. He'd been able to force an erection with a surreptitious Viagra and intense mental imagery, but he hadn't trusted himself to stay hard once Léon got touchy-feely, so a blowjob had seemed like the obvious choice, since it kept his dick far away from Léon's hands. The act itself had been unpleasant, but he had enough experience receiving blowjobs to be relatively competent, so it had been over quickly.

And Ward would have all but forgotten about that regrettable few minutes if Garrett didn't keep bringing it up.

"Did you inventory the ammunition yet, cocksucker?"

"Goddamnit, John! Would you knock that off?"

"Don't get your panties in a bunch, son, I'm just kidding around." Garrett clapped Ward on the shoulder. "Hey, look, you got the job done. You made me proud. You did good in Spain."

_If I wanted you to suck my dick, you'd already be doing it._

* * *

_Here is what May would say if you asked her how she feels about Grant Ward:_

When Skye asked me, I told her I felt rage and that was absolutely true. But I also feel ashamed. Not because of the sex, per se. I've slept with people who were horrible or disreputable before, and in all fairness, he was perfectly adequate in bed. I believe the act can be separate from the person. But I was arrogant. SHIELD policy prohibits sexual relationships between members of the same team for a reason: it impairs your judgment, blinds you to certain details or conclusions. I thought I was above that. I thought that others might be distracted, but me? No, I assumed my thinking would be as clear as ever. Obviously, it wasn't.

* * *

**2013, Shore leave in Hong Kong**

_Of course May kept condoms in her travel bag_, thought Ward, ruefully. Not that he was complaining. He was snipped, of course – had been for years, but there were still STDs. And besides, there was nothing wrong with the belt-and-suspenders approach.

Not to mention the fact that he lasted longer when he used a condom.

Ward had gotten snipped right out of the academy, a special SHIELD procedure that was supposed to be reversible. The doctor had spent half an hour describing all the possible ways the procedure could leave him permanently, rather than temporarily, infertile and offering him the opportunity to freeze his sperm. Ward had declined. He knew by the time he was twelve that he never wanted to have any kids.

"We don't insist on the sterilization procedure for specialists," said the doctor, apparently still trying to talk him out of the operation _they were offering him_. "But many do find it convenient. Of course, sex isn't a part of most ops, but it does help maintain your cover now and then. And it's easier if-"

The doctor was _still talking_ about the pros and cons of a procedure that Ward had already agreed to.

"And some young men find that it's easier to, uh, perform the task at hand if they don't have to worry about the possibility of-"

Ward idly wondered if he could just staple the consent form to his shirt and gas himself.

"If the reversal is successful – and, as I've mentioned, it nearly always is – there's no increase in the rate of birth defects beyond what would be accounted for by normal aging. We've not been doing the procedure long enough to examine long-term testicular cancer rates, but-"

Ward was jealous of the female agents, who just chose between an implantable hormonal contraceptive and an IUD. Not only did they get to avoid a scalpel near their genitals, they didn't have to listen to an endless informed consent lecture. Fucking hell.

"And of course, you can still back out tomorrow if you change your mind. That being said, what do you-"

"Yes, yes, I consent." Please tell me I don't have to go through all of this again tomorrow.

"Good, good," said the doctor absently. "So, no food or beverages after 1800 and no water after 0600."

"Got it."

Thank fucking god, the doctor left him alone after that. The worst part of all that rambling was that it made Ward actually doubt his own conviction to never have kids. Maybe he _should_ freeze a few shots, just in case. _And then what? Find a woman with more desperation than sense who's willing to pop out an ungrateful, useless, slimy, dirty thing? It would cry and you would hate it. You could turn into your dad? Turn into Maynard? Maybe you could train it to serve John on his weird little quest. Maybe you could teach it to steal cars and set fires and-_ All right, point made.

Ward shook his head and brought himself back into the present. He smiled at May, not a friendly smile or even a seductive smile, but a confident smile, one that said, "I know you want me."

"So," he said, "tell me what you like."

May gave a challenging look. "How long can you hold your breath?"

* * *

_Here is what Fitz would say if you asked him how he feels about Grant Ward:_

Ward? I haven't seen him in a long time. I think they have him on a mission or something, but I'm pretty sure I've talked to him on the phone. There's something not-right here, and they won't let me leave. Ward said I should just gather intel and wait, so that's what I'm doing.

I remember Ward teaching me to play poker. I told him I was no good at it, but he said that poker was just math, so I should be great. I used to be great at math. I don't think I am anymore. Of course, Ward also told me I should tell Simmons how I feel about her. I'm really glad I didn't do that. It would never work, not the way I am now. The staff here say I'm improving, but I think they're just being nice.

I wish Ward would come visit. It's boring here.

* * *

**The BUS, immediately after Lorelei's attempted takeover of Earth**

Ward had a headache. He didn't remember being hit in the head, but it must have happened while he was under Lorelei's control because his temples were throbbing.

May was apparently pissed at him, which was annoying, but honestly not that tragic. He could live without the sex, and his mission was coming to an end soon anyways. Garrett was sick of waiting, which meant gears would be turning at double speed.

Had Garrett heard about this whole Lorelei debacle? Most likely. Ward tried to decide what Garrett's reaction would be. Probably, _What'd you let her control you like that for?_ or maybe _High five for banging an alien!_

And the sex with Lorelei had been good. She had excellent legs and it she must've had more control over her tongue than a human woman and-

God, Ward had the worst fucking headache.

A drink. He needed a drink. Alcohol would improve this situation. (Although Ward faintly remembered that alcohol only made headaches worse, he pointedly ignored that part of his mind.) He left his bunk and walked down the hall to the lounge, expecting to find it empty, but instead he saw Fitz, sitting at the bar, nursing what looked to be Bailey's Irish Cream.

"You're not drinking Scotch?" asked Ward before he could stop himself.

"I like Bailey's," snapped Fitz. "That doesn't make me any less of a Scotsman," he huffed.

"Okay." Ward held up his hands in surrender. "I'm not here to challenge your Scottish-ness. I just came for the whiskey."

"I'll pour you a drink," said Fitz quickly, before Ward could grab the bottle and return to his bunk.

Ward hesitated – he could probably get away with snatching the bottle away from Fitz and leaving, but he gave in and sat down at the bar, pouring himself a tall drink.

"Mind control," said Fitz, lifting his glass in an ironic toast.

"Mind control," echoed Ward, wishing Fitz would keep quiet. His voice was only making Ward's headache worse.

"It's a weird feeling," said Fitz. "It's like, it was me, but it wasn't me. I wanted to protect Lorelei, even though I knew that I didn't. Isn't that weird?"

"Mmh," Ward grunted.

"Probably worse for you. I mean, she made you do, well, a lot of things, really. A guy like you probably, I mean, not exactly-" Fitz gestured vaguely as if this would clarify what he was trying to say.

"It was no big deal."

"If it were me," said Fitz, "I would have called it rape."

_High five for banging an alien!_

"No," said Ward. "Think about it this way. You go to a bar. You see a beautiful woman. She walks up and takes you by the hand and leads you to a nice little back room. Would you say no?"

"Well, I'd probably be at the bar with Simmons, so I'd have to say no because I wouldn't want to leave Simmons by herself. It would be rude and besides, she can't hold her alcohol nearly as well as she thinks she-"

_High five for banging an alien!_

"You're missing the point."

"I don't think 'I would have said yes' is the same as 'I did say yes'." Fitz held his glass to his mouth for several seconds, but he didn't drink.

_High five for banging an alien!_

"Ngh." Holy hell, Ward's headache was awful!

Fitz tipped his head to the side and looked at Ward for a long time. Finally, he said, "Do you want to play a game?"

"Huh?"

"A board game. Or…or a card game. I've always wanted to learn how to count cards."

"You don't already know? It's just math."

Fitz shook his head.

"All right. Get me a deck of cards and I'll teach you my system."

Ward's headache wasn't so bad.

* * *

_Here is what Simmons said about Grant Ward:_

"Sir, if you have a moment?"

Coulson nodded and indicated the chair across from his desk. "Please."

"I understand that…you obviously have reasons for your decisions, but I'm finding it…difficult to get work done. I'm requesting to be re-assigned to the Playground until Ward can be returned to prison." In between the pauses, Simmons' speech was rushed, as if she felt it was something unpleasant to be gotten over with as quickly as possible.

Coulon's lips were flat and pressed together. He nodded very slightly, an almost imperceptible twitch. "You know we need you here," he said, sympathetic but firm. "I don't want you to think that I didn't consider your feelings when bringing Ward onto the bus. But remember who we've locked in that room. We've held Ian Quinn. We've held an Asgardian. He can't escape."

"Yes, but-" Simmons stopped herself. Arguing with the man in charge was not in her nature. She looked at Coulson, who gestured for her to continue. "He saved my life, sir. He saved my life and then he tried to kill me! And he killed Fitz!"

Coulson wasn't sure how to respond. Fitz and Simmons had both survived being jettisoned into the sea, though Ward clearly couldn't have planned on their miraculous escape.

"I know you think that Fitz-" There was a catch in Simmons' voice. "With all due respect sir, you have no idea how smart he was. You can't understand it. You really can't. And it's gone. It's all gone and he's not Fitz anymore!" There were tears in her eyes. She tried to keep them from falling, to maintain a professional demeanor, but it was a losing battle.

Coulson stood and walked around his desk, arms wide to draw her into a hug. "The doctors say he's doing better." This was true. The doctors all felt he was doing remarkably well given the severity of the injury, but that was compared to a normal standard, that wasn't comparing to what Fitz once was. "He may never be the same man again. I don't know that, I can't know that. All I can do is try to protect my team the best I can and I truly believe this is the way to do it. You don't have to interact with Ward at all, but we need you here, Jemma."

Simmons excused herself, went to her bunk, and cried for her lost friend.

* * *

**The Bus, Present Day**

Grant Ward was lying on the floor when the door to the BUS containment cell opened and Coulson entered, unaccompanied. He was carrying a computer tablet.

Ward sat up, but before he could stand, Coulson sat down on the floor across from him.

"Did you know my father was a police officer?" asked Coulson.

Ward shook his head.

"He was. He died on the job, but he wasn't gunned down in the line of duty. It was an accident, a senseless accident. Another officer was handling a firearm that was supposed to be disabled. It discharged. He died."

Ward was unsure why Coulson was telling him this, so he defaulted to the standard socially accepted response. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Coulson shook his head. "I'm telling you this because I overheard your conversation with Agent Triplett this morning. Do you know what Garrett told me about his family? He said his parents died in a car crash. Drunk driver. Are you seeing the pattern? He told me his family died in a senseless accident. He told Triplett he grew up in a military family. He told you that he grew up surrounded by violence and abuse."

Both men sat in silence for many moments as Ward considered the implications. "Three conflicting stories," he said. "That doesn't prove…"

"Parts of each could be true," offered Coulson. "I can't know for sure. But I do know that parts of the story he told you were false. He took it from a movie called _The Burning Bed_. It was released in the 80's. You're too young to have seen it, but it was reasonably well known at the time. It's about a woman, abused by her husband, who finally murders him by setting his bed on fire. Even that line you quoted, 'You made a hard bed, now you have to lie in it' – that's a line from the movie." Coulson offered the tablet to Ward. "I pulled up the imdb page if you want to see for yourself.

Ward looked at the description. It wasn't exactly the same as the story Garrett told him, but the similarities were striking, as was the pattern in which story Garrett told to the people he met. "That's…interesting," he said, handing the tablet back to Coulson. His voice wasn't defensive, but it wasn't conceding either.

"I think he told you a story you could relate to, one that would make you think you could understand each other, that he could be on your side and you could be on his. I think he told you that story knowing that you would identify with an abused boy, unable to protect the people he loves, who finally struck back against the person who caused all that pain."

"In his story," said Ward, "his step-father died."

Coulson nodded. "Your brother survived, didn't he? Maybe that made you feel jealous, small, weak, less-than, that Garrett succeeded where you failed. Maybe Garrett framed the story that way for precisely that reason: to make clear to you that he was the one who knew the way forward, that he had the answers."

Ward's hands were resting on opposite knees, fingertips digging into his pants.

"For what it's worth, Ward, I don't think you failed. Maybe your brother deserved to die, maybe he didn't. But I'm glad you didn't end up a murderer at the age of fifteen."

Coulson stood and left the cell.


	8. The Well

Ward sat in his cell for four more days without seeing Skye or Coulson again. May or Triplett brought him food – something palatable, probably leftovers from what the others were eating. It was leagues better than the nutritional food hunks he had received in prison. May entered and left without saying anything. Trip usually offered a sedate, "Hey, man," and asked him if he needed anything. Ward always declined, but he appreciated being asked.

He knew that they were watching him at all times, probably waiting for him to crack and try to contact his (non-existent) HYDRA masters. Instead, he did a lot of pushups and other bodyweight exercises in between long sessions of staring blankly at the walls. He didn't really get bored. It had been a long time since he'd had the capacity for boredom. He felt old, he realized. Not in the sense of being weary or tired, but more like he'd seen it all.

The door opened. Skye walked in, followed by May. May took up Triplett's bodyguard post, standing by the door. Skye sat down at the table.

"Were you successful?" asked Ward.

"Huh?"

"Your op. That's where you've been the last few days, right? Was your op successful?"

"I…don't think I'm supposed to tell you that," said Skye.

"I didn't mean…" Of course, it was probably an anti-Hydra op. They weren't going to give him that information. "Is everyone okay?"

"We all made it out. Trip got hit in the-" Skye stopped at a glare from May, but she looked confused, unsure why she was being told to stop talking.

"You shouldn't tell me their weaknesses," explained Ward, "in case they have to cross me off."

"I hate this!" yelled Skye, suddenly emotional. "I hate Hydra! I hate Garrett for making all of this happen! I hate you for going along with it! I hate that we're talking about making sure that my teammates have the upper hand so they can kill you. And I hate that it's actually necessary."

Ward's expression was difficult to read.

"And I hate…I've been reading your file. There's a lot to hate in there."

"It's all in the past."

"Yeah, but, I mean, you can never really erase a hard drive, you know?"

Ward didn't know whether that was true or not, didn't know much about computers beyond the rudimentary information systems classes he'd had at the Academy, but he trusted that Skye was correct.

"And there's stuff missing from your file. Must be deliberate because it wasn't that hard to find."

Ward's stomach clenched. What did she know? How much did she know? She was carrying a plain black folder. What was in the folder? Would there be pictures?

Skye opened the folder and pulled out a clear greyscale photo of two small boys lighting candles in a wood-paneled chapel. The caption read _Grant (grade 3) and Dana (pre-K) help prepare for the Saint Luke's Advent Ceremony_. Dana looked normal, balancing on his left leg and wearing a smile on both sides of his face.

"That's you and your little brother, right?"

Ward nodded absently. He wanted to reach out and touch the picture, but at the same time, he didn't really want to look at it.

Skye reached into the folder again and pulled out a large, glossy photograph of a newly married couple. The beaming bride had long, curly auburn hair. The groom's body looked normal at first glance, but Ward could clearly see the bumps of the leg brace rumpling the tuxedo pants. The groom's face did not look normal: One side bore a bright smile; the other half slumped listlessly downward. The placard in front of the couple named them as Ashleigh Reed and Dana Wade.

"He changed his name," said Ward. "Good for him."

"He married seven years ago. They have a son."

"Weed," muttered Ward under his breath, saying the name the way Dana would have. He didn't ask about the child.

"What happened to him?" Skye didn't understand enough about medicine to know all the possible causes of whatever was going on with Dana Wade/Ward's face, but she knew that at least some of the causes would be diseases or something that were nobody's fault. But there was nothing about it in Ward's file, which meant someone had removed the information, which meant it wasn't just a virus or something. It had to be important.

Ward glanced at May and wished it was Triplett standing guard instead, not just because Trip was nicer to him, but because he had been intimate with May. Physically intimate, anyway, and if he answered Skye's question, that would be another sort of intimacy. And he had never mixed the two before. Maybe he wanted to with Skye, but she obviously wasn't interested. He wondered what Dana told his wife about their family's business.

"Grant?" asked Skye.

Ward had apparently waited too long to answer.

"I mean, you don't have to answer, I guess. But I just…"

"Brain damage. When he was five."

"Was it…was it from a beating?"

Ward shook his head slowly. His eyes were unfocused and his lips slightly parted.

"So what happened?"

Ward shut his eyes. "I was nine. He was five. Maynard was thirteen, or maybe fourteen. We were at our grandmother's house. I was watching TV when I heard Dana screaming. He didn't usually scream when he got hit. He just…took it. I ran outside to see what was going on, but all I saw was Maynard standing over the well. Then I heard Dana yelling for help. It echoed."

"I run outside. I grab a rope." Ward was now speaking in the present tense. "I want to throw it in, to get Dana out, but Maynard says no. And I'm a coward. Dana can only swim a little bit and he can't tread water at all really. And he keeps yelling, 'Help me! Please! Help me, save me! I know you care about us, Ward!' And I keep waiting for Maynard to give me permission."

Skye wondered who 'us' was and why Ward's brother would call him by his last name, but she kept quiet.

"And you keep waiting." Ward had shifted to the second person, perhaps as a plea to be understood. "You know Maynard won't let him die, not for any moral reason but because it would be hard to cover up. You use that as an excuse to wait, an excuse to not throw him the rope. And it is just an excuse, because there's something you and Maynard didn't count on: Once he goes under, the rope won't help. He's unconscious now, he can't hold on to anything. You have to work with Maynard to rig up the rope so he can lower you in and it's dark and it's small and you have to find him and you have to swim downward and hope you've got him and pull him out and he's not moving and you think he's dead. You're in the ambulance with him and everyone keeps calling you a hero and you want them to shut up and you ask them if he's going to be okay and all they'll say back is that they'll be at the hospital soon. And you wait and wait and the hospital. Maynard is a good actor. He looks sad and sorry and what a terrible accident, but you don't know what to say. How does sorry even help, when you can't say it aloud, the thing you're sorry for."

"The doctors say Dana's alive, but we can't see him just yet. They have to explain why he's going to look different. Why he would be different. And I want to tell them, 'It's because he was almost murdered and I let it happen', but that's not the kind of different they mean. He went too long without oxygen."

Ward looked completely absent as he finished the story.

May's face was predictably blank.

Skye reached forward and took Ward's hand, ignoring the warning look May gave her as she did so. "You were nine," she said. "It wasn't your fault."

Ward wasn't sure how to respond. Skye did love her platitudes.

"Dana didn't blame you, either."

Well, that was freaking impossible. Even if Dana didn't blame him for the well, he surely held a grudge over the beatings or the fact that Grant burned down their house.

Skye reached again into that horrible folder and she pulled out a photo of a toddler sitting on Santa's lap. "That's Dana's son, your nephew," she said. "His name is Grant."

* * *

Ward had no idea what he was feeling, only that he was feeling a lot of it.

He remembered reading in some book that someone left behind at an airport that babies forgot a thing existed if they weren't actually looking at it. It was why they liked peek-a-boo, the book said. From the baby's perspective, you weren't moving your face behind your hands, you were blinking in and out of existence. Ward hadn't understood why that watching your parents disappear and reappear was apparently fun rather than terrifying, but he admittedly hadn't thought too deeply on the topic.

Was he like those babies? When he stopped seeing his family, did he somehow expect them to just vanish into thin air? Logically, it was ridiculous, but why else was he so surprised that Dana had changed his name, moved on, gotten married, made a life for himself?

And had a kid. Dana had a son. Named Grant.

Every time Ward thought about the boy, he felt his muscles wrench unpleasantly and he started to sweat. It felt wrong. His mind rejected the idea as surely as it would reject a flying rock or a talking dog.

The door opened again, letting Skye rush inside, followed closely by Triplett.

"What happened to your face?" asked Ward. Skye had an abrasion on her cheek which looked liable to turn into a bruise.

"You still don't know how to talk to a girl, do you?" joked Skye. She turned serious. "We almost caught up with Quinn, but instead we found an empty lab and a bunch of goons. That's how I got the savage makeover." She gestured to the injury.

"You shouldn't be out on the front lines. You're not ready for that yet."

"How do you know what I'm ready for? How do you know what I can handle?"

"I'm just saying, you're new to this. We barely got through any combat training before-"

"Before you betrayed us."

"I was going to say 'before you were shot', but yes, that too."

"Coulson says you know something about me. Something you're not telling. I deserve to know. We're chasing after Quinn and Raina and just plain answers for all of this crap, but here you are in your cozy little cell with your secrets. It's not fair!"

"No, it's not. But telling you would be worse."

"It's my life. Let me decide that for myself."

If she'd made a different argument, Ward would have brushed her off, but he was thinking about how people still existed when he wasn't watching, how Dana had his own life, separate from Grant, how Dana had a son named Grant.

_Help! Help me, Grant! Give me the rope! Please!_

"I don't know anything else about Quinn or Hydra," said Ward, his standard boilerplate.

"But you know something about me," said Skye. "You said once that you cared about me, that it wasn't just an act. Please, Grant. I know you want to do the right thing. I know you want to help me."

_I know you care about us, Ward! You don't have to do this!_

"Telling you won't help you."

_Come with me and I'll teach you how to be a man._

"You've said it yourself. We're both survivors. We can survive this secret."

_I am a rock. I am an island._

Ward made his decision. "Trip," he said, "aim your firearm at my head, finger on the trigger. I'm going to hold her hand. If I get out of line, you can shoot me."

"What are you-" Skye began, but Triplett was doing exactly as Ward had said.

Ward reached across with his right hand and pulled Skye's right hand toward him. He lay her hand flat on the table under his right hand, which was in turn under his left. "I'm going to spell some of the words into your hand," he said, "so only you know what I'm saying. I don't think the others should know, but it's your choice. You should at least know what the secret is before you decide to share it."

Skye nodded slowly.

"I'm going to spell slowly. You need to tell me if you understand each word."

"Okay."

"You're a-" With the index finger of his right hand, Ward traced the word B-O-M-B. His left hand blocked the movement from the cameras.

"How can I possibly be a-"

"Don't say it."

"But that doesn't…"

"You're an-" A-L-I-E-N. "Your-" S-P-E-I-C-E-S "is here to" C-O-N-Q-U-E-R. "Your-" P-A-R-E-N-T-S "are actively planning it. So is" R-A-I-N-A.

"If I'm a…what you said. Who controls when I…?"

"I don't know. Not you."

"What happens when...?"

M-I-L-L-I-O-N-S D-I-E.

"No," said Skye pulling her hand away. "No, no, no. This is a lie. You're lying. You're a spy. You're a liar. You're a traitor."

"I'm sorry, but it's true." He reached toward her reflexively. She jerked backwards.

"No!" she cried, standing up from her seat. "You might even think it's true, but it's not. It's not! I know what I am! I know who I am! And I'm not…I'm not a…" She looked terrified, panicked.

"Okay, I think this interview is over," said Triplett, "getting between the two of them.

Ward obediently walked to the far wall, while Skye backed out of the room, shaking with horror, never taking her eyes off of Grant Ward.


	9. The Boxer

Skye was in her bunk, door shut, knees pulled tightly to her chest. She wasn't normally one to freak out, so she wasn't as familiar with the effects of sheer, blind panic as she might have been. Other, more nervous, people knew from experience that tunnel vision is the natural side effect of crisis, that there's something about the unexpected and awful that makes leaves the brain blind to possibility.

As it was, Skye was sure she could actually feel herself counting down to detonation. Was she ticking? She was pretty sure she could hear herself ticking.

She had to decide what to do. She had to figure this out. She had to think like an analyst. Coulson had been training her, pointing out how situational variables could be calculated using the same techniques she had honed on digital data.

What had he said? Start with what you know. Your facts. Your 100% statements.

So what was a fact? Well, she was sure that killing a million people was wrong, that she would do anything to prevent it, even…make herself die. (She balked at thinking the word 'suicide'.)

And then, it's not just facts, but who knows those facts. So did Ward know that she would rather die than let herself be used for murder? Yes, he had plenty of time to get to know her and she always was pretty direct about her feelings.

Which meant he either told her a lie because he wanted her to kill herself (and the initial refusal was just a ploy) or the initial refusal was genuine because he wanted to protect her from the truth and its obvious implications. Two possibilities. Possibility A: Ward is a liar and she's not a bomb. Possibility B: Ward wasn't lying this once and she will cause millions of deaths if she doesn't do something about it.

Okay, that line of reasoning didn't help. Start somewhere else. It's like a search algorithm. Have to go to a new node.

Was Ward telling the truth? He seemed sincere, but then he'd seemed sincere when lying before. That was no use.

Was Ward committed to fighting the alien invasion? He didn't exactly have a great track record on protecting human lives, and if he really wanted to make sure his intel was used, he could have told May or Coulson. So, probably not.

Did Ward care about her? Of course not. He had murdered and terrorized the people around her, frightened and threatened her. But he never hurt her directly. Went out of his way to protect her. Maybe he didn't care about her in a mature, empathetic way, but what if he did have some kind of immature, limited feelings for her?

She tried a new starting point. _Ward does not take actions that __he believes__ will hurt her._ She thought back to everything she knew about him, ever mission they'd been on, every time they'd faced off, and yes, it was true.

So, if he doesn't want to hurt her, and he knows that she can't live with being a bomb, so he refused and refused to tell and then…Possibility B. She is a monster.

She really can feel herself ticking.

Well, she doesn't know what might set her off, but she knows that getting shot is safe, since she's done that before. It's easy enough to get a live gun, not just an ICER. She's an agent. She has access. Who should pull the trigger? She can't ask any of the others to do it. It would break them. That's not an option.

She has to write a note and do it herself.

* * *

This is the dream that Grant Ward is having.

_He is an adult, shirtless in the heat, sitting on the hard, dry ground as he pets Buddy. He hears someone singing, so he stands and looks for the source of the sound, but he sees nothing._

_Buddy is gone and Fitz is in his place, sitting cross-legged on the ground and eating a sandwich._

"_Did you hear that?" Ward asks Fitz._

"_Hear what?"_

"_Someone was singing." Ward spun around. "There it is again!"_

"_Are you sure you don't have a concussion? Head injuries are…well, they're something, aren't they?"_

_Ward snaps at Fitz to get up and follow him, then he takes off into the woods, branches scraping and whipping behind him. The singing is louder, but Ward can't recognize the melody or the words. He can't even tell if the voice belongs to a man or a woman. _

_He clambers easily over some boulders, but before he can continue running, he hears a voice from behind him yell, "Slow down!" It's not Fitz's voice. It's younger, higher, and a little slurred. "I can't go that fast," says the boy._

_Ward knows what he will see before he turns around: his younger brother feebly trying to make his way over the rock formation. Ward wants to keep running, to follow the sound and find the singer, but he turns back and picks Dana up. "I'll carry you," he says._

_But Dana is hot to the touch. Too hot to touch. His soft features seem oblivious to the fact that there is a fire raging beneath his ribs and he has no idea that there are people trapped in the burning structure, struggling against the sinew and flesh._

_Ward could put the fire out, by shoving Dana into the pond, by holding him there until the waters choked the flame, but then-_

The door was opening. Ward woke up.

* * *

Ward stood to greet his visitor.

It was Skye. Alone. Clutching a pistol.

Was she here to kill him? He had figured that if anyone was going to cross him off, it would be May, but he wasn't exactly shocked at this development. After all, he'd given them his last piece of information. Now he was just a liability, a risk who might talk to someone else. Better, easier to just put one in the back of his head.

But why did she come alone? She had to know that he could take the gun from her in such close quarters. Did she think that he wouldn't fight? Did she think that-

Ward took a good look at Skye and he could see that she had been crying. She wasn't crying at the moment, but there were tear tracks running down her makeup.

"I couldn't do it," said Skye. "I tried and I just couldn't make myself do it. And I won't make one of the others do it. They don't deserve that. I don't know if you do or not, but you owe me." She held out the gun to him, handle first. "If you do this for me," she breathed, "I'll forgive you."

Ward didn't take the gun. "You're not thinking straight. You shouldn't be in here without a guard."

"You knew that this is what would happen, didn't you? That either the CIA drags me off and vivisects me or I die. That's why you wouldn't tell. Because you wanted to help me. Well, I need you to help me one last time. Just close your eyes and pull the trigger."

She held the gun out again and he took it, more out of reflex than anything.

"Skye, you can't ask me to-"

"Don't tell me what I can't ask you to do! Think of everything you've asked of me, and all the while you were…" Skye turned around and knelt on the floor. "I already left a note. Just do this, and I can forgive you. You have to do this. You have to-"

"Skye, I-"

"Hurry! Please! Before I change my mind!" She was trembling, but her voice was resolute.

Ward looked at the gun, then looked at her. She would forgive him. This would, if not make up for the things he did, would at least be a start. The others wouldn't believe it, even with her note, but that was okay. He could do one good thing in his life. He could fulfill her dying wish. He could make it quick, almost painless. She would forgive him.

Grant Ward leveled the gun at the back of her head and closed his eyes.

* * *

Phil Coulson was exhausted. His whole team was exhausted, long past burning out and well into the listless ashes stage. They were trying to do the work of a whole organization (while keeping a high-risk prisoner on board!) and the impossibility of it was setting in. He hadn't slept the night before, running an op that turned out to go nowhere. And his sleep wasn't as restful as of late. He almost suspected that he had returned to his childhood habit of sleepwalking. He finally asked Simmons for some muscle relaxants for his back to take advantage of their sedative side effects. So, he was very deep asleep when he heard it.

The sound came from the monitor on his desk which displayed continuous video of Grant Ward's cell. The man was yelling and banging on the walls. And there was someone else in there, lying motionless on the ground. Was that-?

Coulson jumped out of bed, bad back be damned, grabbing his sidearm and rushing through the corridor, not caring at all that he was only dressed in basketball shorts and an undershirt. When he came to the cell, he found the door open and unlocked. There was a gun on the table, mag lying next to it, but Coulson couldn't see from across the room whether it had been fired or not. Ward was rolling Skye onto her side.

Coulson couldn't see any blood.

He cocked his weapon and aimed it at Ward. "You have five seconds to tell me what the hell is going on here."

Ward raised his hands in surrender. He didn't look cocky. He didn't look victorious. He looked small and lost, the way he had when he was exhausted by the berserker staff. "She's just unconscious," he said.

"Keep talking." Coulson didn't lower the gun.

Ward didn't know what to do. He had a long history of people threating him with violence. That wasn't new. But he had this secret. And he had been trying to protect Skye, but instead, she almost died, by her own hand or by his. It would be his fault either way, for giving her that terrible burden to carry alone.

Coulson wasn't like Garrett. Ward remembered the day they took down Mike Peterson in the train station, risking thousands to save one man. Coulson wasn't like Garrett. He took Amador back. Brought her in without killing her. Coulson wasn't like Garrett. Ward couldn't imagine Garrett moving heaven and earth to find a miracle drug to bring his protégé back to life. Coulson wasn't like Garrett.

So Ward told Coulson everything. His secret, how he knew it, how he told Skye, and what she asked him to do.

Skye regained consciousness while Ward was speaking. She looked up at him. "You're crying," she said.

"No, I'm not." Ward never cried. He couldn't remember the last time he cried.

Skye got to her feet, slowly and unsteadily. She touched his face and yes, those were tears. "You are," she said. "I don't think I've ever seen you cry."

"I don't think I ever have." Which was, as far as he could remember, the truth, because the last time he cried, he was four years old, sobbing and wailing as he arrived at the terrible realization that his sister was gone and was never coming back. He was so small and it was so long ago that he has no memory of that day.

Skye wobbled, still dizzy from the concussion, and decided to sit down on Ward's cot. Coulson sat down on one side of her. She gestured for Ward to sit on the other side.

Ward looked to Coulson for permission before sitting down where Skye had indicated.

"He told you," said Skye to Coulson. "He told you what I am."

"He told me what he thinks you are. First, we have to find out if it's true."

"I don't think he's lying," said Skye. "I don't think he wants to hurt me."

Skye's words made Ward's stomach clench.

"Just because he's not lying," said Coulson, "doesn't mean he's not mistaken. Someone could have lied to him." Coulson looked over Skye's head to meet Ward's gaze. "I think a lot of people lied to him."

"What if it is true?" asked Skye. "What if I really am a bomb?"

"Then, we'll find a solution. I happen to know some very brilliant people." Coulson put his arm across her shoulders. "I know what you're made of. I know who you are and that's what matters." He looked at Skye, catching another glimpse of Ward in the process.

Ward looked away.

Coulson thought back on everything in Ward's file, on everything he knew when he brought the man onto his team and everything he had learned since. He thought about exhaustion. He thought about Hydra. He thought about Eric Koenig and the rest of the people Ward had killed. He thought about five years in the woods with only the occasional visit from John Garrett to break up the loneliness. He thought about Ward, angry and humiliated, stubbornly keeping his secret until Skye overwhelmed him with news of his nephew and the possibility that his younger brother might think on him with affection or even gratitude. He thought about Clint Barton and Natasha Romanov and Akela Amador and all the other agents who had been turned from less-than-reputable circumstances. He thought about Skye and her relentless optimism and her relentless empathy. He himself had become desensitized to the alienation, neglect, and misery that filled so many agents' files, but she looked at Ward's records the way a normal person would, with sympathetic pain and righteous anger. He thought about Fitz. Coulson thought about all of these things.

Skye thought about ticking and bombs and the fact that only a few minutes ago, she had been sure she wanted to die.

Ward tried not to think about anything at all.

"I want you to pay for the things you've done," said Coulson. He wasn't looking at Ward, but he was clearly talking to him. "I want you to pay for what you've done and you can't do that from in here. I'm going to have you fitted with a tracking device, one that will disable you if you step one toe out of line. We'll be watching you. We won't trust you. But I honestly don't think that more isolation is helping anyone. And we need more hands in the field."

"I-" Ward was grimacing deeply, his eyebrows pressed so far forward that they touched.

"Just take the deal, Not-Really-Like-Feelings-y Man," said Skye.

"That's…not even a good nickname." Ward looked over at Coulson. "She should really get checked out for the concussion."

"He's right," said Coulson, helping Skye to her feet. "Let's get you down to the infirmary." Ward didn't have to say he was taking the deal. Coulson knew he would accept. They walked out of the containment cell. Coulson looked back at Ward before shutting the door. "Get some rest," he said. "I'll see you in the morning."

It wasn't much of a promise, but Ward felt confident it would be kept.


End file.
